Gl    T  Vi  "in 
jLJj  Y 


LEVELAND    MOFFET 
ND  VIRGINIA   HA 


GLINT 
OF  WINGS 


UNIT.  OF  CAUF.  LIBRARY.  I-OS  ANGELES 


GLINT 
OF    WINGS 

The  story  of  a  Modern  Girl  who 
wanted  her  Liberty — and  got  it 

by 
CLEVELAND     MOFFETT 

Author  of  "Possessed," 

and 
VIRGINIA  HALL 


Drawings  by  Anne  Moffett 


THE     JAMES     A.    McCANN     COMPANY 
Publishers  New  York 


Copyright    1922    by 
THE  JAMES   A.   McCANN   COMPANY 

All    Rights    Reserved 


f  RIMTED  IN  THE  U.  S.  £, 


CONTENTS 
PART  ONE— UNAWAKENED 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    A   LOVE  LETTER   FROM   AN   UNKNOWN 

MAN 3 

II     PATRICIA  DEMANDS  HER  LIBERTY     .  16 

III  PATRICIA'S  ULTIMATUM 25 

IV  "I'M  GOING  TO  WIN  HER"     ....  38 
V    THE  PROPOSAL  TREE 45 

VI    THE  HUSBAND  OF  HER  DREAMS  ...  52 

VII     PATRICIA  ELOPES 60 

VIII     PATRICIA  CUTS  OFF  HER  HAIR    ...  69 

IX    THEIR  FIRST  QUARREL 76 

X     IN  WHICH  STANLEY  CALLS  ON  PATRICIA'S 

FATHER 94 

XI     MAN  TO  MAN 105 

XII     PATRICIA  WORKS  FOR  A  WIFELY  HALO     .  Ill 

XIII  THE  LURE  OF  CLOTHES 121 

XIV  PATRICIA  DECIDES  TO  LEAVE  HER  HUS- 

BAND      129 

XV    "YOUR  UNRULY  PAT"  .  137 


2131594 


CONTENTS 
PART  TWO— AWAKENED 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    PIERRE 147 

II    THE  DEPTHS  ARE  STIRRED     ....  156 

III    STANLEY  ASSERTS  HIMSELF     ....  173 

,     IV    PATRICIA  TELLS  PIERRE  THE  TRUTH     .  182 

V    DESPAIR 192 

VI    PATRICIA  UNBURDENS  HER  SOUL     .     .  204 

VII    STANLEY  CALLS  ON  PIERRE     .     .     .     .211 

VIII    PIERRE  ASKS  PATRICIA  TO  MARRY  HIM    .  232 

IX    ENTER  MARGOT 239 

X    A  FOOL'S  PARADISE 249 

XI    THE  END  OF  EVERYTHING     ....  258 

PART  THREE— LOVE  WATCHES 

I    THE  BARRIER  OF  PRIDE 265 

II    THE  LONGING 283 

III  THE  END  OF  His  STRENGTH   ....  290 

IV  THE  LEAP  297 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


Patricia     Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

Patricia  trying  to  make  up  her  mind  to  say  she  is  sorry    80 

"Now,  God  is  coming  down  out  of  Heaven" 88 

Louis  Tong    112 

Don  Hammond.    That  old  Don  Juan  is  like  a  yellow 
plant  that  has  grown  under  a  moldy  board 126 

Stan     182 

Margot      240 

Pierre.  . .  he  withdrew  forever  into  the  shadows 282 


GLINT 
OF  WINGS 


The  Glint  of  Wings  in  a  far  off  sky,  the  glint 

of  something  magical,  enchanting, 

beyond — just  beyond. 


PART  ONE— UNAWAKENED 


GLINT  OF  WINGS 

CHAPTER  I 

A  LOVE  LETTER  FROM  AN  UNKNOWN  MAN 

PATRICIA  LYDIG  sat  on  the  veranda  of  the  Inn, 
idling  over  the  pages  of  a  book.  Mentally  she 
was  at  war.  She  hated  the  fussy  hotel  guests 
gossiping  about  climate,  rheumatism  and  food, 
hated  the  rhapsodic  account  of  sunsets  and  moun- 
tains, the  scandalized  old  ladies  in  their  knitted 
shawls  who  looked  at  her,  nudged  one  another  and 
exuded  an  atmosphere  of  "It  was  not  like  that  in 
our  day,"  whenever  she  smoked  an  innocent  little 
cigarette. 

Above  all  she  hated  the  thought  that  the  Lydig 
family  had  come  out  to  winter  in  California, 
leaving  behind  her  beloved  Manhattan  Island, 
where  all  the  really  worth-while  things  in  the 
world  were  gathered,  in  her  opinion.  And  Mount 
Lowe,  of  all  places!  Home  for  incurable  bores! 
What  a  ridiculous  touristy  thing  to  do,  to  come 

3 


4  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

crawling  up  here  on  that  absurd  little  wriggling 
cable-car  railway.  Would  she  ever  forget  that 
awful  guide  with  his  professional  patter  about 
the  beauties  of  nature?  Really  for  an  intelligent 
man  her  father  did  make  the  most  extraordinary 
decisions. 

"I  cannot,  I  will  not  go,"  she  had  stormed 
when  Newton  Lydig  announced  this  feature  of 
their  itinerary.  "What's  the  use  of  being  twenty- 
one  if  a  girl  still  has  to  be  dragged  about  against 
her  will  like  a  child  of  four?" 

But  she  went,  and,  alas !  here  she  was. 

"Nothing  could  possibly  happen  in  this  place 
in  a  million  years,  and  father  knows  it,"  Patricia 
reflected  bitterly,  as  she  lit  another  of  her  fav- 
orite Egyptians  and  thrust  the  toe  of  a  smart 
brown  Russian  boot  through  the  veranda  rail, 
tilting  back  her  chair,  and  grinning  wickedly  at 
an  attenuated  spinster  who  righteously  averted  her 
eyes  from  this  symbol  of  modern  feminine  degen- 
eracy. 

"Damn!"  yawned  Patricia. 

At  this  moment,  suddenly,  as  had  happened 
before,  began  one  of  those  stormy  discussions  be- 
tween the  two  Patricias  (there  are  two  of  her, 
just  as  there  are  two  of  all  of  us)  that  had  some- 
times kept  both  of  them  agitated  for  days. 


FROM  AN  UNKNOWN  MAN          5 

PATRICIA 

(Who  has  the  habit  of  arguing  with  herself 
at  such  times)  Get  out,  Woozy! 

WOOZY 
No,  I'm  going  to  talk  to  you. 

PATRICIA 

Conscience!  Always  on  my  trail!  What  a 
nuisance!  What  have  I  done  now?  Why 
shouldn't  I  say  damn  1  And  smoke  a  cigarette — 
when  I  feel  like  it?  Right  out  in  the  open  in- 
stead of  sneaking  off  to  my  room. 

WOOZY 
You  know  how  it  worries  mother. 

PATRICIA 

Poor  mother!  She's  so  unsophisticated.  All 
that  talk  of  hers  yesterday  about  religion!  No 
wonder  I  lost  my  temper. 

WOOZY 

Mother  is  right.     The  trouble  with  you  is  that 
you  have  no  religious  belief. 
PATRICIA 

I  have,  too,  in  my  own  way.  I'm  more  reli- 
gious than  most  people.  Up  in  the  hills,  alone  by 
the  sea  I'm  inspired,  taken  out  of  myself. 

WOOZY 

You  don't  seem  inspired  by  these  hills.  You 
do  nothing  but  grouch. 


6  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

PATRICIA 

I  mean  New  York  hills.  I  hate  California — 
I  hate  everything  in  it — the  climate  that  they're 
always  bragging  about  and  the  silly  little  orange 
groves  .  .  . 

(She  bites  her  lips  as  her  sense  of  humor  nearly 
forces  her  to  smile,  and  lets  her  gaze  rest  upon 
a  stately  eucalyptus  in  the  gardens  as  it  sways 
towards  a  row  of  golden  camphor  trees} 

WOOZY 
You  don't  hate  the  sunshine,  Pat? 

PATRICIA 

Yes,  I  do.  It's  monotonous.  It's  too  bright. 
It  makes  all  the  colors  crude.  It  spoils  the  green 
of  the  grass — makes  it  flat.  I  tell  you  that  as 
an  artist.  And  I  despise  the  palm  trees;  they 
look  like — like — 

(She  pauses  with  a  wicked  gleam  in  her  eyes) 
like  fat  Jewesses. 

WOOZY 

(Teasing)  They  must  remind  you  of  Man- 
hattan Island.  Do  you  despise  the  birds,  Pat? 

PATRICIA 

I  certainly  do — nasty  little  things  that  wake 
you  up  at  five  in  the  morning. 

WOOZY 
There  you   are !      You   say   such   silly  things 


FROM  AN  UNKNOWN  MAN          7 

when  you   try  to   be   clever.      Besides,   you   hurt 
mother's   feelings. 

PATRICIA 

(Impatient)  Mother!  Poor  dear!  She's 
hopelessly  old-fashioned. 

WOOZY 

What  a  heartless  little  monster  you  are !  You 
know  how  beautiful  mother's  life  is — full  of  lov- 
ing service. 

PATRICIA 
(Uneasily)      She  enjoys  it. 

WOOZY 

Does  she?     Well,  anyway,  her  religion  amounts 
to   something — it's   based   on   unselfishness.      But 
yours — the  only  religion  you've  got,  Patsy  Lydig, 
is  to  go  after  what  you  want. 
PATRICIA 

(With  decision}  I'm  going  after  it  all  right, 
straight  after  it.  Where  does  mother  get  off  with 
all  her  unselfishness?  What  good  does  it  do  her? 
Every  one  walks  all  over  her.  The  more  unsel- 
fish a  woman  is  the  less  she  gets.  The  patient 
Griseldas  are  doormats,  and  I'm  not  going  to  be  a 
Griselda. 

At  this  moment  a  tow-headed,  freckled-faced 
youngster  came  pattering  up  the  veranda  steps, 
pulled  off  a  tattered  cap,  and  thrust  a  letter  into 


8  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

Patricia's  lap,  muttering,  "He  told  me  to  give 
it  to  you." 

"He?  Who?"  the  girl  asked  in  surprise  as 
she  examined  a  square  white  envelope.  But  the 
urchin  had  gone.  She  could  see  him  tearing  down 
the  trail. 

Opening  this  missive  Patricia  read  the  most 
astounding  love  letter  a  girl  ever  received.  From 
an  entire  stranger !  Her  cigarette  went  out  as 
she  read  and  re-read  it.  It  began  abruptly: 

Do  not  be  vexed  with  me  for  presuming  to  address  you ; 
some  impulses  are  too  strong  to  be  resisted.  I  must  speak. 
It  is  quite  beyond  my  power  to  refrain  from  telling  you 
that  I  love  you  above  all  things,  above  all  women.  I  am 
not  afraid  to  declare  this  because  so  great  a  love  as  mine 
for  you  is  the  justification  of  any  audacity.  It  cannot  fail, 
for  it  will  never  change.  For  a  week  I  have  watched  you, 
yearned  for  you,  dreamed  of  you — my  beautiful  predes- 
tined one! 

Patricia  laughed,  teetering  joyously  back  and 
forth  on  her  chair  until  the  observant  old  ladies 
gasped  with  apprehension. 

"Of  all  the  sentimental  bosh  1  There's  a  catch 
in  it."  And  she  read  on: 

I  have  never  loved  before  and  shall  never  love  again — 
except  to  love  you.  This  love  will  fill  my  entire  life, 
even  if  you  refuse  me  any  word.  .  .  . 


FROM  AN  UNKNOWN  MAN          9 

The  girl  stopped  abruptly.  "Any  word! 
Huh!"  she  sniffed,  but  a  puzzled  frown  puckered 
her  brow  as  she  turned  back  to  the  letter : 

.  .  .  even  if  I  never  have  the  joy  of  knowing  you  or 
speaking  to  you,  I  still  affirm  that  my  whole  life  will  be 
glorified  by  this  love. 

All  I  ask  of  you  now  is  a  line  saying  that  you  do  not 
deny  the  possibility  of  a  miracle  like  this.  Tie  your 
answer  to  the  Proposal  Tree  (place  of  miracles!),  ad- 
dressed to  one  who  can  and  will  make  you  happy,  one 
who  happens  to  be  rich  in  this  world's  goods  and 
who  places  all  that  he  has  and  is  at  your  sweet  dis- 
posal. 

STANLEY  MATTHEWS. 

The  folded  sheet  rustled  in  Patricia's  hand. 
Her  eyes  grew  speculative.  "What's  the  idea?'* 
she  asked  herself  again,  then  took  account  of  a 
postcript : 

I  beg  that  you  accept  the  enclosed  invitation  for  your- 
self and  friends.  You  will  meet  some  of  the  most  promi- 
nent people  in  the  movie  world  at  a  reception  after  the 
picture. 

Her    lip    lifted    scornfully    as    she  carelessly 

relit     her     cigarette,     and     sweeping  past     her 

watchful  and  disappointed  audience,  retired  to 
her  room. 


io  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

II 

Even  Patricia  with  all  her  scorn  for  convention 
and  love  of  daring  was  shocked  into  speechless 
amaze  at  this  communication.  Instinctively  she 
crushed  and  crumpled  the  sheet  in  her  hand. 
What  colossal  impertinence !  Then,  piqued  by 
one  of  the  phrases  which  half  eluded  her,  she 
slowly  smoothed  the  page  out  on  her  knee  and 
studied  it. 

Preposterous  as  was  the  declaration,  the  letter 
itself  carried  with  it  an  oddly  convincing  sin- 
cerity. It  rang  true.  But  the  unparalleled  au- 
dacity of  him!  She  read  and  re-read  it, 
her  eyes  dwelling  on  the  signature.  Stanley 
Matthews!  In  all  probability  he  was  a  movie 
star!  Yes,  come  to  think  of  it,  there  was  a 
movie  star  by  that  name,  though  Patricia  had 
never  seen  him. 

A  vague  impression  insinuated  itself  into  her 
mind,  then  eluded  her.  He  said  he  had  been 
watching  her  for  a  week.  Could  it  be  possible 
that  Stanley  Matthews  was  the  tall,  red-haired 
man  with  rugged  face  and  broad  shoulders  whom 
she  had  caught  eying  her  at  odd  times  these  last 
days?  She  had  seen  him  surreptitiously  watch- 
ing her  the  first  night  at  dinner.  She  had  met  him 
down  by  the  spring,  on  the  veranda,  and  again 


FROM  AN  UNKNOWN  MAN        n 

one  moonlight  night  she  had  caught  a  glimpse  of 
him  on  a  bench  beneath  the  oak  tree  that  fronted 
her  room.  He  was  smoking  a  pipe. 

Patricia  dismissed  the  red-haired  man  con- 
temptuously and  came  back  to  the  letter.  Per- 
haps Stanley  Matthews  had  admired  her  and  some 
one  of  his  friends  had  sent  this  as  a  practical 
joke.  At  which  thought  her  dignity  rose,  injured 
and  rebellious.  How  dared  they  presume! 

Again  the  girl  re-read  the  letter  and  now  no- 
ticed for  the  first  time  the  overlooked  invitation. 
It  was  for  the  next  day  to  the  premiere  presenta- 
tion of  a  big  picture — a  private  showing  in  Holly- 
wood. That  might  be  fun!  Yes,  it  would  be  a 
lark  to  go  there.  She  might  see  Charlie  Chaplin 
or  Nazimova.  She  would  certainly  go.  But  her 
parents  ?  How  could  she  account  to  them  for  the 
invitation?  How  overcome  their  objections? 

Wait!  She  might  induce  one  of  the  girls  she 
had  met  at  the  Inn  to  go  with  her  in  their  car  and 
say  that  she  had  received  the  invitation.  That 
would  be  a  harmless  deception.  And  this  other 
girl  would  be  a  protection  in  case  she  should  meet 
the  ardent  one  and  he  dared  to  be  presumptuous. 

Subtly,  almost  subconsciously,  Pat  was  flattered 
to  have  made  such  an  overmastering  appeal  to  a 
man  who  did  not  know  her,  a  man  to  whom  she 
had  never  spoken.  At  least  this  was  a  new  ex- 


12  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

perience.  But  an  uneasy  fear  came.  Was  it  pos- 
sible her  short  skirts  and  too-red  lips  had,  ac- 
cording to  her  father's  oft-asserted  theory,  made 
this  stranger  mis-read  her?  Could  he  have  found 
her  Greenwich  Villagy?  She  felt  cheapened  by 
the  mere  supposition.  Surely  there  was  about 
her — a  difference,  a  distinction.  The  supreme 
little  snob  in  Patsy  rose  with  a  hoity-toity  lift  to 
the  chin,  a  damning  supercilious  atmosphere  that 
said  plainly:  "Please  notice  who  I  am."  Then 
disgustedly  she  laughed  at  herself  as  a  ridiculous 
poseur.  This  was  one  of  Patricia's  nicest  quali- 
ties, she  could  so  often  see  herself  as  the  most 
delicious  of  jokes.  "Don't  be  a  silly  little  it," 
she  told  herself  now  severely. 

Anyway,  Patsy  decided  to  go  to  this  reception 
and  arranged  the  details  with  her  new  girl  friend, 
who  was  delighted  to  assist.  But  when  she 
broached  the  idea  to  her  mother  she  met  with 
firm  opposition. 

"A  motion  picture  studio  is  no  place  for  a 
nice  girl." 

"Oh,  Mother,  that's  absurd!  Girls  of  twenty- 
one  aren't  babies.  We're  much  more  sophisti- 
cated than  you  think.  We  know  quite  a  lot  about 
life." 

"Your  father  won't  hear  of  it,  you  know  he 
won't." 


FROM  AN  UNKNOWN  MAN        13 

"Father  is  so  ridiculous — always  assuming  I'm 
going  to  make  a  fool  of  myself  with  some  man. 
Heavens,  those  old  bogey  dangers !  We've  heard 
so  much  about  them,  that  we  are  really  disap- 
pointed when  nothing  ever  happens." 

"Patricia  I" 

"Well,  we  are.  All  this  talk  about  girls  being 
lured  away  by  polished  villains  to  live  in  immoral 
grandeur — it's  just — movie  stuff.  We're  quite 
able  to  take  care  of  ourselves.  Please,  Mother, 
let  me  go." 

"I'll  ask  your  father,  but  you  know  how  he 
objected  to  your  Bohemian  friends  in  New  York." 

Here  the  storm  broke,  Patricia  being  already 
on  her  nerves,  and  New  York  being  a  painful  sub- 
ject. She  declared  that  they  were  treating  her 
like  a  child.  She  was  thwarted  at  every  turn. 
All  the  joy  and  spontaneity  were  taken  out  of  life. 
She  might  as  well  be  in  boarding  school.  It  was  a 
conspiracy  of  ceaseless,  foolish  surveillance.  As 
for  the  reception,  all  her  interest  in  it  was  gone 
now,  she  wouldn't  go  under  any  circumstances — 
not  even  if  they  let  her  go  alone. 

Of  course  she  did  not  mean  this,  as  her  mother 
well  understood  when  she  said  sorrowfully:  "I 
will  speak  to  your  father,  Patricia,  and  see  what 
he  thinks." 


i4  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

For  a  long  time  that  night  Patricia  lay  on  her 
bed  reflecting  bitterly.  If  she  were  a  boy  her 
father  would  have  put  her  through  college,  al- 
lowing her  the  choice  of  a  profession  and  the 
money  to  fit  herself  for  it;  and  afterwards  he 
would  have  backed  her  up  with  a  generous  sum  to 
start  in  life.  Being  a  mere  girl,  however,  he  had 
chosen  a  profession  for  her,  the  profession  of 
matrimony.  For  this  he  had  given  her  "accom- 
plishments," sent  her  to  "finishing"  schools,  har- 
nessed her  to  the  irksome  and  ridiculous  routine 
of  fashionable  life.  Matrimony! 

Patricia  kicked  off  one  pump  and  irately  dug 
her  foot  into  the  comforter.  How  unreasonable 
men  were  with  their  daughters !  Besides,  she  was 
not  prepared  for  matrimony.  If  she  had  to  pass 
an  examination  in  the  fundamental  qualifications 
she  would  flunk  flat.  Instinct  told  her  this. 

"I  hate  their  whole  rotten  system,"  she  re- 
belled, as  her  other  pump  flew  after  its  mate; 
then  beating  up  the  pillow  she  buried  her  damp, 
flushed  face  in  it — meditating  angrily.  She  did 
not  want  to  marry,  she  wasn't  going  to  marry — 
not  for  an  age.  Certainly  not,  if  she  had  to  take 
one  of  these  epitomes  of  social  boredom  that  her 
father  had  his  mental  eye  upon.  She  had  settled 
that  long  ago.  "It's  absurd,"  she  thought.  "If 
I  should  announce  my  engagement  father  would 


FROM  AN  UNKNOWN  MAN        15 

allow  me  anything  I  want  for  my  trousseau   .   .  . 
he  would  be  lavish  about  the  wedding  .   .   ." 

Patricia   checked  the  nervous   tapping   of  her  • 
foot  against  the  coverlet  as  a  thought  came  that 
held  her  breathless,  then   sent  her  flying  across 
the  room  to  her  writing  table. 

"I've  got  it,"  she  exulted.     "I  know  what  I'll 
do." 


CHAPTER  II 

PATRICIA   DEMANDS    HER    LIBERTY 

"Our  society  is  still  full  of  hostility  against  .  .  .  females 
who  feel  the  want  of  liberty,  and  are  not  yet  ripe  for  it.  They 
lack  both  the  strength  and  the  power  for  carrying  on  the  strug- 
gle against  a  whole  society  which  has  doomed  them-  .  .  ." 

A  MAN  may  be  a  great  statesman  and  not 
be  able  to  manage  his  own  cook;  similarly  and 
with  much  more  reason  a  man  may  be  a  success- 
ful novelist  and  depicter  of  feminine  emotions 
(which  Newton  Lydig  was)  and  not  be  able  to 
manage  his  own  daughter. 

"Let  me  think,  de?r,"  he  said  to  his  wife  after 
listening  to  a  distressed  account  of  the  mother's 
interview  with  Patricia. 

"I  feel  that  it's  a  very  serious  moment,  New- 
ton. We  mustn't  make  any  mistake." 

"Please  let  me  think,"  repeated  the  father  with 
a  touch  of  impatience,  for,  if  the  truth  must  be 
told,  he  had  known  vaguely  for  months  that  an 
issue  like  this  with  his  daughter  must  soon  be 

16 


PATRICIA  DEMANDS  HER  LIBERTY   17 

faced;  he  ought  to  have  been  ready  for  it — but 
was  not. 

"I'll  come  back  later,"  the  mother  sighed,  and 
left  the  master  of  the  house  to  his  perplexed 
meditations. 

The  novelist's  eyes  rested  upon  Patricia's  face 
on  his  desk  before  him,  two  faces  in  their  Rus- 
sia-leather case,  for  two  were  necessary  to  sug- 
gest the  contradictions  in  their  daughter's  loveli- 
ness; one,  a  profile  showing  the  flower-like  grace 
of  her  head  in  its  glory  of  coiled  hair,  the  purity 
of  her  features,  the  child-like  candor  of  her  eyes; 
the  other,  full-face  and  equally  beautiful,  but  lan- 
guid and  sophisticated,  the  femme  du  monde,  re- 
vealing in  her  clear,  keen  gaze  the  understanding 
of  centuries,  artificial,  arrogant  .  .  .  yet  some- 
how strangely  appealing. 

Patricia  was  twenty-one  (her  birthday  had 
come  only  a  few  weeks  before)  and  for  months 
she  had  been  dreaming  of  this  time  and  of  what 
it  would  mean  to  her.  At  twenty-one  she  would 
have  her  liberty.  At  twenty-one  she  would  burst 
forth  wonderfully  from  irksome  bonds  and  re- 
straints. At  twenty-one  she  would  cut  off  her  hair 
(to  cite  one  small  privilege  firmly  denied  and  in- 
tensely longed  for)  if  she  still  felt  like  it.  At 
twenty-one  she  would  smoke  cigarettes  unabashed 


1 8  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

before  her  disapproving  father.  And  a  thousand 
other  things ! 

Now  she  was  twenty-one ! 

Lydig  saw  that  this  was  not  a  case  where  he 
could  nonchalantly  shrug  fatherly  shoulders  and 
shift  his  responsibility  in  the  usual  masculine  way 
by  saying,  "Well,  well,  after  all  she's  a  girl  and 
her  mother  can  manage  her  better  than  I  can." 
Her  mother  could  not  do  this  alone.  Pat  was  his 
own  daughter,  part  and  parcel  of  his  youthful 
egotism,  his  love  of  adventure  carried  to  the  point 
of  recklessness;  also  of  his  proneness  to  experi- 
ment with  life's  enticing  secrets,  of  his  courage 
.  .  .  even  when  this  led,  alas !  to  agonizing  re- 
morse. 

Thinking  as  a  psychologist,  not  as  a  father, 
Lydig  understood  how  these  young  women  of 
the  on-coming  generation  feel  about  their  liberty. 
They  feel  very  much  as  men  feel,  that  is,  they  care 
supremely  about  it,  and  propose  to  have  it,  or 
some  of  it,  at  almost  any  cost.  Real  liberty — to 
go  and  come  as  they  please,  to  enjoy  themselves  as 
they  please,  to  face  life  as  they  please,  even  at 
the  risk  of  mistakes  and  misadventures.  He  un- 
derstood that  an  intelligent  and  high-spirited  girl 
in  her  early  twenties  finds  it  irksome  to  be  always 
.  .  .  always  watched  over,  chaperoned,  generally 
interfered  with  by  her  parents.  Nor  is  she  neces- 


PATRICIA  DEMANDS  HER  LIBERTY  19 

sarily  ready  to  marry  merely  to  escape  this  guard- 
ianship. He  didn't  want  to  marry  either  at 
twenty-one.  Naturally  a  girl  much  prefers  to 
drift  along  for  a  few  years  in  the  care-free  spirit 
of  youth,  exulting  in  the  growing  consciousness  of 
her  womanly  power,  her  beauty  .  .  .  waiting  for 
the  hero  of  her  dreams  to  appear,  exploring,  un- 
hindered, this  path  or  that  in  the  garden  of  life's 
fascinations  that  encompasses  her.  Unhindered! 
That  was  the  point.  Fathers  and  mothers  (how- 
ever sincerely  loved)  may  become  a  hindrance. 
Even  a  husband  would  be  a  hindrance  in  certain 
explorations  and  investigations  that  a  modern  girl 
longs  to  make.  She  thinks  of  a  husband — later; 
of  children — later ;  for  the  moment  she  is  taken  up 
with  her  new  role  as  a  fearless  and  independent 
force  in  this  age  of  women's  emancipation.  She 
realizes  her  power,  and  proposes  to  make  the 
most  of  this — exactly  as  men  have  made  the  most 
of  their  power  for  centuries. 

Liberty!  That  is  exactly  what  the  novelist 
himself  had  demanded  when  he  was  twenty-one. 
"How  clearly  he  remembered  that  year  of  his  re- 
bellion— he  was  twenty-three — when  he  broke 
away  from  the  stifling  dullness  and  narrowness 
of  teaching  school  and  set  sail  for  Paris,  cutting 
loose  his  eager  bark  from  its  old  respectable  moor- 
ings, letting  it  drift  boldly  forth  into  the  shining 


20  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

river  of  adventure.  Paris  and  journalism  1  Paris 
and  excitement!  Five  la  joiel 

But  now  when  his  daughter  asked  for  her  lib- 
erty, he  protested  that  this  could  not  be  accorded; 
she  was  not  ready  for  it — the  thing  was  impos- 
sible. Why?  He  even  called  her  ungrateful,  un- 
reasonable for  making  this  demand.  Why? 

The  obvious  answer  was  that  he  feared  the 
mistakes  that  she  might  make,  and  was  not  willing 
to  let  her  risk  making  such  mistakes,  simply  be- 
cause she  was  a  girl,  and  a  girl's  mistakes  are  not 
to  be  trifled  with;  this  was  evidently  the  position 
that  all  conservative  fathers  would  take.  On  the 
other  hand  .  .  . 

Patricia  was  fundamentally  fine,  Lydig  was 
sure  of  that,  an  incurable  idealist,  hiding  lovely 
maidenly  dreams  behind  a  mask  of  worldliness. 
A  fearless,  intelligent  young  woman,  but  not  yet 
ready  to  go  her  way  unguided,  not  yet  ready  to 
enjoy  the  Liberty — with  a  big  L — that  she  clam- 
ored for.  Her  knowledge  of  life  and  of  human 
nature  was  a  pathetic  half-knowledge,  fed  by 
daring  "modern"  books  that  she  only  half  un- 
derstood, by  plausible  poseurs  whom  she  adored 
meeting  and  whose  brilliant  but  preposterous 
views  of  feminine  duty  and  destiny  only  served  to 
confuse  her. 

By   the   way,   where   was   that    absurd    essay 


PATRICIA  DEMANDS  HER  LIBERTY  21 

of  Pat's  that  he  had  come  upon  accidentally  the 
other  day?  An  essay  written  a  year  or  two  ago 
that  had  a  bearing  on  the  present  situation.  Ah ! 
He  remembered,  and  presently  produced  from  a 
drawer  some  pages  bearing  this  intriguing  title  in 
red  ink,  "On  Being  Bad,"  by  Patricia  Lydig. 
Frowning,  the  father  ran  his  eyes  over  a  para- 
graph of  this  sufficiently  daring  composition:  "It 
is  just  as  dreary  to  stand  on  one's  head  all  the 
time  as  to  snore  through  one's  days  in  a  rocking 
chair.  My  present  ideal  is  to  never  get  so  flabby 
as  to  be  unable  at  intervals  to  rouse  myself  with 
a  shout  and  a  somersault  or  two  from  the 
lethargy  of  routine,  and  then  return,  disheveled 
but  grinning,  to  rock  docilely  and  dream.  Shaw 
says,  'every  step  of  progress  means  a  duty  re- 
pudiated,' and  whether  this  be  true  or  not,  I  know 
that,  for  me,  it  is  during  my  interludes  of  inde- 
corum that  Life  has  been  most  alive  and  throb- 
bing." 

Interludes  of  indecorum!  Good  heavens! 
There  was  the  modern  girl  who  called  herself 
Intellectual  because  she  had  read  the  foolish  books 
of  some  cynical  Englishman  who  thought  noth- 
ing of  the  harm  he  might  do,  so  long  as  he 
achieved  a  cheap  popularity.  What  if  Pat  should 
put  her  trust  in  one  of  these  studio  prattlers! 
Poor  child !  What  if  she  should  elect  to  build  the 


22  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

altar  of  her  love  beside  some  burned-out  soul  who 
might  appreciate  her  beauty! 

Lydig  thought  back  through  the  months  and 
recalled  his  shock  of  surprise  that  night  in  New 
York  (it  was  only  three  months  ago)  when,  hav- 
ing dropped  in  at  the  Red  Lion  cabaret  after 
the  theater,  he  had  caught  sight  of  Patricia  at  a 
gay  table,  seated  between  two  men  who,  for  all 
their  well-bred  appearance,  were  evidently  fol- 
lowers of  pleasure !  In  the  group  were  two  other 

women,  one  the  hostess,  Mrs.  K ,  a  rich  and 

restless  widow  who  spent  half  her  time  in  Paris, 
the  other  a  beautiful  creature  from  the  stage  who 
had  achieved  a  recent  vogue  and  who  now,  dar- 
ingly appareled,  was  a  center  of  attention.  Pa- 
tricia explained  it  all  afterward  in  an  agitated 
scene.  Her  mother  knew  about  this  invitation. 

Mrs.  K was  a  perfectly  respectable  person. 

They  had  gone  to  the  theater,  then  to  the  Red 
Lion  for  supper,  just  as  Lydig  himself  had  gone, 
just  as  everybody  went.  She  was  not  responsible 

for  Mrs.  K 's  guests,  was  she?    The  men  were 

perfectly  all  right;  one  of  them,  as  her  father 
knew,  was  a  serious  bacteriologist — he  had 
played  golf  with  him.  So  what  was  the  harm? 
They  surely  didn't  object  to  the  dancing,  did  they? 
After  all  she  wasn't  a  little  girl  any  longer.  And 
so  on. 


PATRICIA  DEMANDS  HER  LIBERTY  23 

But  the  memory  of  that  scene  haunted  the 
father.  He  knew  the  significance  of  it.  He  had 
read  the  alluring  message  of  that  vamp  lady's 
cruel,  beautiful  eyes  as  she  fixed  them  on  the 
flushed,  eager  face  of  his  daughter  .  .  .  and 
lifted  her  glass!  And  those  men!  With  their 
smug  respectability!  Their  red-faced,  coldly- 
appraising  glances !  It  was  intolerable.  He  could 
not  bear  it.  He  had  decided  to  make  a  change. 
They  must  do  something  to  draw  Patsy  away  from 
these  Bohemian  or  near-Bohemian  influences  in 
New  York  that  evidently  attracted  her  strongly. 
And  Helen,  with  a  mother's  wisdom,  agreed  with 
him  when  they  had  talked  it  over.  They  would 
try  a  season  away  from  Manhattan  Island,  a  sea- 
son in  California,  where  Patsy  might  find  herself 
amid  saner  surroundings,  and  where  they  all 
might  benefit.  So  they  had  come  out  here  and  he 
had  taken  this  charming  apartment  in  Pasadena 
with  a  separate  suite  for  Patricia,  where  they  were 
to  settle  down  for  six  months  or  so — to  catch 
their  breath,  as  it  were,  and  make  a  new  start. 

And  now  at  the  very  moment  of  their  arrival 
had  come  this  unfortunate  invitation  (perhaps  the 
first  of  many!)  that  would  lead  Patsy  into  even 
less  desirable  surroundings  than  those  she  had 
left  behind.  A  reception  of  motion  picture  peo- 
ple !  Screen  stars !  At  Hollywood,  of  all  places ! 


24  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

No  I  Decidedly  no!  That  would  be  jumping 
from  the  frying  pan  into  the  fire !  He  might  as 
well  put  his  foot  down  decidedly  and  settle  this 
thing  once  and  for  all.  Patricia  was  not  to  ac- 
cept any  invitations  of  that  character. 
He  forbade  it. 


CHAPTER  III 

PATRICIA'S  ULTIMATUM 

MEANTIME,  the  daughter,  roused  to  action  and 
ready  to  face  the  issue  with  her  father  that  was 
now  inevitable,  had  lighted  the  shaded  electric 
lamp  at  her  desk  and  ransacked  the  pigeon  holes 
for  paper.  Then  with  her  feet  curled  chummily 
about  the  round  of  her  chair  and  her  left  hand 
running  through  her  hair  until  it  stood  high  and 
wild  from  her  forehead,  Patricia  composed  this 
letter: 

DEAR  FATHER:  As  I  always  cry  when  we  have  argu- 
ments together  and  so  lose  out,  I'm  going  to  write  down 
a  few  plain  facts  for  you  to  think  about.  Then  you  can 
write  me  your  opinion  just  as  if  I  were  an  outsider  who 
had  made  you  a  business  proposition. 

Suppose,  Father,  that  I  had  been  a  boy.  You  would 
have  taken  great  pride  and  spared  no  expense  in  preparing 
me  for  a  career  in  life,  wouldn't  you?  You  would  have 
trained  me  from  earliest  childhood  to  decide  things  for 
myself  and  you  would  have  respected  mv  inclinations  and 
ambitions.  And  backed  me  up  financially  until  I  got 

25 


26  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

started,   wouldn't  you?      My  success  would   have  been 
your  success. 

Patricia  considered  these  two  paragraphs  ap- 
provingly. With  her  elbows  dug  into  the  desk 
and  her  hands  supporting  her  head,  she  gazed 
thoughtfully  off  into  space,  then  went  back  to  her 
task  with  eyes  brightening  as  the  ideas  came. 
Her  pen  scratched  on: 

But  because  I'm  a  girl  you  take  no  account  of  my  in- 
dividuality. You  think  there  is  only  one  thing  for  me  to 
do — get  married,  and  only  one  way  to  get  married — your 
way.  Well,  I  don't  agree  with  you.  I  hate  this  silly 
tip-toeing  along  in  life  that  you  are  forcing  on  me.  I 
want  to  shake  hands  with  life,  face  to  face.  When  I  meet 
a  real  man  and  love  him,  I  suppose  I'll  marry  him,  if  he 
wants  me;  but  there's  no  hurry  about  that.  I  despise  the 
poor  little  excuses  for  men  that  I  meet  in  our  "best  so- 
ciety." Those  bored  and  fastidious  veterans  of  the  stag- 
line!  With  their  oiled  hair!  I'm  sure  they  are  greedy 
and  lazy  and  coarse  when  they're  not  on  exhibition.  It 
isn't  maidenly  to  think  about  that,  but  girls  do.  Unfor- 
tunately, we  are  rational  creatures,  rather  like  men ! 

Patricia  cocked  her  head  to  one  side  and 
chuckled.  "That's  true,"  she  reflected,  and, 
dropping  her  fountain  pen  into  the  ink  bottle  un- 
til it  clicked,  she  warmed  to  her  composition: 


PATRICIA'S  ULTIMATUM  27 

If  I  should  tell  you  to-night  that  I  am  engaged  to  Mr. 
Willy  Proper  and  want — oh,  quite  a  snug  little  sum  for 
my  trousseau,  you  would  give  me  the  money  gladly,  now 
wouldn't  you?  Well,  I'm  not  engaged,  and  I'm  not 
asking  for  money  for  a  trousseau,  but,  Father,  I  ask  you, 
I  beg  you  to  take  a  chance  on  my  discretion  and  ability, 
as  you  would  with  a  son,  and  advance  me  even  half  the 
price  of  a  trousseau  and  a  smart  wedding  and  let  me  go 
back  to  New  York,  get  an  apartment  and  try  to  make 
some  sensible  use  of  my  talents.  Can't  you  gamble  on  me 
to  that  extent?  Won't  you  trust  me?  I  can  draw  a  .d 
design  and  write  a  bit  and  I  know  I  can  accomplish  some- 
thing worth  while,  if  I  have  a  chance.  Please,  Father! 
Help  me  to  be  proud  of  being  a  woman,  not  resentful 
about  it. 

It's  no  use  to  say  that  I  can  do  my  work  here  at  home. 
I  can't.  I'm  too  comfortable  at  home.  I'm  sunk  up  to 
my  eyes  in  indolence.  I've  got  to  get  away  where  I'll  be 
forced  to  stand  on  my  own  feet.  I've  got  to  show  what 
I'm  good  for  in  the  labor  market. 

By  this  time  the  girl's  cheeks  were  flushed  with 
her  deep  seriousness.  She  wondered  why  she  had 
not  thought  of  writing  before.  Stanley  Matthew's 
letter  had  suggested  the  idea  to  her.  He  had 
served  that  purpose  at  any  rate.  She  ran  on: 

Come,  Father,  be  original.  Set  an  example  to  all  the 
-  t'ler  foolish  fathers  who  think  that  the  only  proper  and 
lady-like  occupations  for  nice  girls  (as  an  interlude  be- 


28  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

tween  graduation  and  matrimony)  are  library  work  or 
teaching  school.  Ugh!  Besides,  I  couldn't  teach  school. 
I  must  use  the  gifts  I  have. 

"Now  for  the  direct  appeal,"  thought  the  girl. 
She  tapped  the  end  of  her  pen  meditatively  against 
her  even  white  teeth.  "I  must  strike  hard." 
She  began  several  sentences,  then  ended  with : 

Give  me  my  trousseau  in  dollars,  Father.  Let  me  spend 
for  myself,  according  to  my  own  ideas,  what  you  are 
spending  for  me.  Let  me  invest  it,  as  I  want  to,  in  my 
talents.  Later  on  I'll  pay  you  dividends  in  achievements 
that  you  will  be  proud  of;  and  I'll  buy  my  own  trousseau 
for  my  own  kind  of  a  husband,  if  I  ever  find  him.  I've 
been  a  leaner  all  my  life.  Don't  make  me  go  on  being  a 
leaner.  //  you  won't  listen  to  me  now,  Father,  I'll  do 
something  we  both  may  regret.  And  eventually  I'll  go 
back  to  New  York  anyway.  I'm  not  putting  any  trim- 
ming of  sweet  words  about  these  facts, — I  want  you  to 
face  them  boldly  and  honestly. 

YOUR  PAT. 

There  was  a  litter  of  little  crumpled  paper 
balls,  discarded  approximations  to  her  thought, 
about  Patricia's  chair  when  she  had  finished.  She 
considered  this  labored  attempt  reflectively  for 
a  moment,  then  addressed  and  sealed  the  letter. 
And  put  a  stamp  on  it.  Then  she  smoothed  her 


PATRICIA'S  ULTIMATUM          29 

hair,  searched  for  her  pumps,  picked  them  up  on 
her  toes  and  slipped  into  them,  threw  a  big  coat 
over  her  negligee  and  mailed  the  letter  in  the  box 
under  the  oak  tree.  After  which  she  hurried  back 
to  her  room. 

Thrilling  now  at  the  thought  that  the  issue  with 
her  father  was  definitely  joined,  yet  vaguely  anx- 
ious, sleepless,  Patricia  went  to  the  window  and 
stared  out  into  the  night,  out  upon  the  oak- 
shadowed  slope  that  stretched  away  below.  And 
there  again,  placidly  smoking  his  pipe,  was  that 
inevitable,  impertinent,  ridiculous  man  with  his 
fateful  face  and  red  hair.  Petulantly  she  turned 
away  and  drew  down  the  shade. 

II 

The  final  clash  between  father  and  daughter 
came  the  next  evening  in  the  most  decorous  set- 
ting, when  the  Lydig  family  drew  around  a  flower- 
spread  table  in  the  spacious  dining-room  of  the 
Inn. 

Patricia  did  not  expect  the  climax  so  soon, 
not  knowing  that  a  conscientious,  bespectacled 
clerk  had  sorted  the  mail  for  the  postman, 
waylaid  her  letter  to  her  father,  and  put  it  in  his 
box.  The  reading  of  this  business-like  communi- 
cation had  shocked  Lydig  into  concentrated  atten- 


30  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

tion,  awakening  in  him  deep  resentments,  uneasi- 
ness, exasperation.  And  yet  .  .  .  what  she  wrote 
was  true  in  the  main !  Good  Lord !  Why  did 
men  marry  and  have  daughters !  Girls  were  cer- 
tainly too  much  for  any  mere  male  to  handle ! 

While  the  perplexed  father  studied  this  appeal, 
Patricia  was  powdering  her  nose  in  a  near-by 
dressing-room,  inspecting  her  hair  from  all  angles 
in  a  hand-mirror,  and  adjusting  the  blouse  of  her 
French  lingerie  frock.  Father  and  mother  were 
already  seated  when  Pat  sailed  into  the  dining- 
room,  exuberant  with  health  and  radiantly  lovely 
in  her  orchid  color  scheme. 

"Don't  order  soup  for  me,"  she  said  cheer- 
fully, as  her  father  pondered  over  the  menu  card, 
settled  the  momentous  question  of  dinner  and 
dispatched  an  obsequious  waiter.  He  then  turned 
to  his  daughter  with  a  resolute,  paternal  air. 

"Pat,"  he  began  abruptly,  "I  have  your  letter." 

Patricia  jumped.  This  swift  action  was  discon- 
certing. "Please,  Father,"  she  said  anxiously, 
"don't  answer  until  you  have  thought  it  over. 
Not  now!" 

His  eyes  were  fixed  on  her,  cold  and  grave, 
through  his  big,  round  spectacles,  and  Pat  saw 
that  there  was  to  be  no  delay  for  a  written  reply. 
The  issue  was  to  be  in  immediate  words.  She 
braced  herself  to  meet  it. 


PATRICIA'S  ULTIMATUM          31 

"I  really  can't  understand  your  writing  such  a 
letter,  Patricia,"  he  said. 

"Why?"  asked  the  girl.     "Isn't  it  true?" 

"Yes,  in  part,"  he  admitted.  "It  sounds  rea- 
sonable, but,  Pat,  theory  and  fact  are  very  dif- 
ferent. A  young  man  can  afford  to  make  a  few 
mistakes  in  getting  started  in  life,  but  a  young 
woman  cannot.  Her  happiness  and  success,  as 
things  are  now,  depend  to  a  great  extent  upon 
her  making  a  desirable  marriage." 

"That's  always  at  the  back  of  your  thought, 
Father — to  get  me  married.  You  seem  to  think 
that  any  old  husband  is  better  than  none."  The 
girl  flung  out  the  words  resentfully. 

"Well,  with  marriage  a  woman  gets  her  inde- 
pendence, my  dear." 

"Does  she?  Not  always.  Anyway,  it's  foolish 
to  tell  a  girl  she  can't  have  her  independence  until 
she  is  married.  You  might  as  well  tell  her  she 
can't  vote  until  she's  married." 

"That's  entirely  different.  A  woman  can  be 
,-happy  if  she  never  votes.  But  if  she  does  anything 
that  interferes  with  her  marriage — " 

"It  doesn't  interfere  with  her  marriage  for  a 
girl  to  be  usefully  occupied,  does  it?  If  I  had 
my  liberty,  in  some  career,  I'd  be  in  a  way  to  meet 
men — a  different  kind  of  men  .  .  ." 

"Exactly,  that's  what  .1  want  to  avoid." 


32  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

"I  mean  a  better  kind  of  men — workers,  not 
society  snips." 

"A  girl  alone  in  New  York  can't  tell  what  kind 
of  men  she  will  meet." 

"Now  you're  coming  back  to  these  stage 
villains!  I  tell  you  there  aren't  any,  Father. 
And  if  there  should  be  one  or  two  queer  speci- 
mens escaped  from  a  dime-novel,  we'd  know  how 
to  deal  with  them." 

Lydig's  hands  closed  angrily  as  he  recognized 
the  futility  of  masculine  argument. 

"Let  me  tell  you  something  about  villains, 
Patsy,"  he  said  quietly.  "There  are  some  in  real 
life,  but  often  they  don't  know  it.  They  are  well- 
intentioned  persons  who  don't  mean  to  be  vil- 
lains— until  the  occasion  arises.  That's  why  it's 
important  to  keep  the  occasion  from  arising. 
The  French  know  that,  they  keep  their  daughters 
sheltered  until  marriage." 

"Sheltered?  They  make  prisoners  of  them, 
and  what's  the  result — after  marriage?  Read 
their  books  and  you'll  find  out." 

"They  may  go  to  the  other  extreme,  but  every 
American  father  will  agree  with  me,"  Lydig  was 
speaking  now  with  increasing  warmth,  "that  an 
attractive  girl  who  makes  a  practice  of,  let  us  say, 
going  to  gay  studio  parties  where  she  may  be 
alone  with  some  man  whom  she  likes,  some  man 


PATRICIA'S  ULTIMATUM          33 

who  likes  her — I  don't  care  if  he's  the  best  man 
living — that  girl  isn't  safe." 

"You're  not  complimentary  to  your  own  sex, 
Father,  and  what  you  say  about  modern  girls  is — 
insulting." 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I  must  act  according  to  my  best 
judgment,  Patsy,  and  I  can't  see  you  living  in  New 
York  alone.  You're  not  ready." 

"And  I  never  will  be  in  your  opinion,"  choked 
the  girl.  "I'll  never  be  grown-up  and  responsible, 
not  even  when  I  am  forty  and  done  for.  Oh!  I 
can  see  it's  just  no  use.  You  won't  be  reason- 
able." She  was  at  the  point  of  tears. 

"Do  you  really  think  me  unreasonable?" 

"I  certainly  do.  You've  lived  with  artistic 
people  all  your  life,  in  New  York  and  in 
Paris.  You  write  your  books  and  plays  as  you 
please  and  allow  no  one  to  bore  you.  You  are 
Newton  Lydig!  When  you  feel  like  it  you  con- 
sort with  all  sorts  of  clever  Bohemians;  but  you've 
never  wanted  me  to  know  them.  I'm  a  pretty  lit- 
tle piece  of  bric-a-brac  to  be  kept  in  cotton  wool, 
according  to  the  nice  safe  standard  of  Miss 
Spence's  School  and  Park  Avenue,  and  marry 
some  stupid  millionaire  out  of  the  social  register. 
Well,  I'm  not  going  to  do  it." 

The  father  remained  silent,  drumming  with  his 
fingers  in  time  to  the  balcony  orchestra  which  was 


34  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

playing  "Ain't  We  Got  Fun,"  while  a  deferential, 
white-clad  waiter  served  filet  of  sole  a  la  menuniere 
and  corn  on  the  cob  and  the  mother  listened  in 
growing  apprehension.  There  was  justice  enough 
in  Patsy's  agitated  defiance  to  disconcert  her  father 
for  a  moment.  It  was  true  he  had  tried  to  shield 
his  daughter  from  undesirable  influences,  and  hav- 
ing no  fortune  to  leave,  he  had  favored  what  is 
called  an  advantageous  marriage.  After  all,  the 
standards  of  Miss  Spence's  School  are  not  so  bad, 
and,  other  things  being  equal,  the  novelist  pre- 
ferred Park  Avenue  to  Sixth  Avenue  or  Lexing- 
ton Avenue.  Why  not?  A  man  is  not  necessarily 
a  fool  because  he  has  money,  and  the  average  suc- 
cessful business  man  is  quite  as  worthy  of  a 
woman's  love  and  respect  as  a  correspondingly  suc- 
cessful artistic  person.  Rather  more  so,  for  men 
in  the  latter  class,  Lydig  had  found,  those  glitter- 
ing Bohemians  that  Patsy  "dreamed  about,  are 
usually  vain  and  irresponsible  and  make  the  worst 
husbands  in  the  world.  Let  a  girl  sigh  over  them 
from  a  safe  distance,  adore  their  photographs, 
treasure  their  autographs,  yearn  over  their  pages, 
but  for  Heaven's  sake,  let  her  marry  some  one 
else. 

"Patricia !"  reproached  her  mother. 

"I   don't  mean   to   be   disrespectful,    Mother, 


PATRICIA'S  ULTIMATUM          35 

but — "  the  girl  held  her  ground  valiantly,  "there 
are  certain  things  that  ought  to  be  said."  She 
eyed  her  father  steadily. 

"Yes,"  he  agreed,  "and  they  may  as  well  be 
said  now." 

Then  came  the  final  phase  of  this  discussion 
which  continued  across  the  table,  quietly  and 
pleasantly  enough,  as  far  as  outward  manifesta- 
tions went;  nevertheless  things  were  said  that  al- 
tered the  course  of  several  lives. 

On  the  whole,  until  the  very  end,  Patricia  was 
more  controlled  than  her  father,  who,  accustomed 
to  the  habit  of  authority,  found  it  hard  to  deal 
with  her  on  a  basis  of  strict  intellectual  equality. 
His  tendency  was  to  demand  of  her  the  subservi- 
ence of  a  dutiful  daughter  (as  when  she  was  lit- 
tle) who  must  accept  whatever  Father  said  as  in- 
carnate wisdom.  This  put  him  at  a  disadvantage 
because  he  was  conscious  of  a  certain  arbitrariness 
in  himself  and  was  exasperated  by  it. 

"As  I  understand  it  then,  Patricia,"  he  con- 
cluded with  hardening  eyes,  "you  stand  on  the 
terms  of  your  letter.  You  demand  your  entire 
liberty?" 

"Yes." 

"To  go  and  come  as  you  please?" 

"Exactly." 


36  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

"To  know  and  frequent  such  people  as  you 
happen  to  fancy?" 

"Yes." 

"For  example,  if  a  man  invites  you  to  dinner 
and  the  theater  you  claim  the  right  to  accept 
his  invitation  whether  your  mother  and  I  know 
anything  about  the  man  or  not?  Do  you?" 

"I — I  suppose  I  do." 

"And  to  come  home  with  him  after  the  theater, 
perhaps  after  supper — say  at  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning — alone  with  him?" 

"There  is  no  harm  in  that,  Father.  Every- 
body does  it.  That's  why  I  want  to  go  back  to 
New  York,  so  these  little  things  won't  worry 
you." 

"Little  things!"  He  was  silent  for  a  moment, 
trying  to  say  nothing  he  would  be  sorry  for  after- 
ward. 

"I  can't  consent  to  that,  Patricia,  not  while  you 
are  dependent  upon  us." 

The  girl  eyed  him  without  flinching  as  she  felt 
the  situation  grow  more  tense. 

"I — I  hope  to  earn  money  by  my  writing — if 
you'll  only  be  patient  until  I  get  started,"  she 
pleaded. 

"When  will  that  be?  How  much  can  you  earn? 
Don't  you  see  how  uncertain  it  all  is?  Don't  you 
feel  that  you  should  respect  our  wishes,  our  preju- 


PATRICIA'S  ULTIMATUM          37 

dices,  if  you  like,  at  least  until  you  are  married  or 
self-supporting?  Don't  you,  Patsy?" 

He  tried  to  make  his  words  tenderly  appealing, 
but  they  sounded  harsh  and  uncompromising  to 
his  daughter.  He  seemed  to  be  taking  a  sordid 
advantage  of  his  miserable  money.  Her  self-con- 
trol broke  and  her  anger  flamed  out. 

"No,  I  don't!  I  have  my  own  life  to  live  and 
I'm  going  to  live  it  in  my  own  way,  just  as  you 
lived  your  life  in  your  way,  and  I  think  it's  very 
unkind  of  you  to — " 

"Patricia  !  Stop !"  interposed  the  mother,  who 
saw  with  distress  that  the  quarrel  had  reached  a 
point  where  irreparable  harm  would  be  done. 

And  Patricia,  tingling  with  a  sense  of  wrathful 
self-vindication,  stopped,  not  because  of  this  warn- 
ing, but  because  at  that  moment,  by  a  strange 
fatality,  a  call  boy,  wearing  yellow  glasses  and 
walking  very  straight,  came  briskly  down  the 
length  of  tables  calling  out  with  painstaking  dis- 
tinctness: "Mister  Stan-ley  Matthews."  And 
again  as  he  came  nearer:  "Mis-ter  Stan-ley 
Matthews!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

"I'M  GOING  TO  WIN  HER" 

HERE  was  a  coincidence.  While  Patricia  and 
her  father  were  arguing  over  the  abstract  question 
of  a  girl's  liberty,  there  at  another  table  within 
twenty  feet  of  them  sat  the  man  who  was  destined 
to  influence  Patsy  decisively  in  her  effort  to 
achieve  this  liberty — the  man  with  the  awkward, 
powerful  body  and  the  shock  of  reddish  hair. 
The  man  who  had  written  that  incredible  love 
letter,  Stanley  Matthews!  There  he  was  watch- 
ing the  lady  of  his  adoration.  All  through  the 
meal  he  had  been  watching  her,  talking  about  her 
to  his  companion,  a  fat,  jolly-looking,  red-faced 
individual  who  listened  in  patient  astonishment  to 
Stan's  sentimental  outpourings. 

"If  it  was  anybody  else  but  you,  old  boy,  who 
was  giving  me  this  line  of  love-at-first-sight  stuff, 
I'd  say  he  was  plain  nuts.  I'd  have  him  fired  from 
the  company.  I'd  tell  the  governor,  as  a  con- 
scientious director,  that  he  was  unsafe  and  unfit 

38 


"I'M  GOING  TO  WIN  HER"        39 

to  be  the  hero  of  a  million-dollar  serial.     I  would 
— sure  as  my  name  is  Dodd." 

Stanley  answered  with  an  engaging  and  trans- 
forming smile  that  revealed  an  unusual,  rather 
aloof  personality.  "That's  all  right,  Hammy,  I 
don't  know  why  I've  taken  an  old  cynic  like  you 
into  my  confidence.  Your  seared  and  calloused 
soul  can  no  more  understand  my  feelings  than — " 

Dodd  laughed  in  a  shrill  falsetto  that  con- 
trasted grotesquely  with  his  massive  bulk. 
"What's  worrying  my  seared  and  calloused  soul 
is  the  vision  of  what  this  fool  infatuation  is  going 
to  do  to  your  work.  Get  over  it,  Stan.  Have 
somebody  introduce  you  to  her  and  you'll  find 
she's  just  an  ordinary  pretty  girl  like  all  the  rest 
of  'em." 

"No!  Oh,  no!  She's  different,  totally  differ- 
ent. Thank  God,  I  have  true  intuitions.  I  know 
what  I'm  talking  about." 

Dodd  stared  in  mystified  incomprehension. 
There  was  something  in  Stanley's  earnestness  and 
quiet  power  that  took  away  any  facetious  impulse. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  a  man  can  love  a 
woman  when  he's  never  spoken  to  her?" 

"Yes.  I've  done  it."  Stan  turned  towards  the 
Lydig  table  and  his  eyes  rested  on  the  fair  young 
girl  who  was  all  unconscious  of  his  gaze.  "I  love 
her  beyond  everything  in  the  world.  She  is  going 


40  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

to  be  my  wife  or — or  I'll  never  have  a  wife." 

Hamilton  Dodd  was  stunned  into  a  sort  of 
rough  sympathy.  "I  certainly  wish  you  luck,  my 
boy,  but — what's  the  plan?  What's  your  next 
move?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  sent  her  a  note  telling  her 
how  I  feel.  I'm  waiting  for  my  answer." 

"Telling  her  how  you  feel?  You  didn't  have 
the  nerve  to — to  say  you  love  her?" 

"I  certainly  did." 

"Good  Lord!  When  she  don't  know  who  you 
are?  When  she's  never  seen  you?" 

"Yes." 

"You  signed  your  name  to  it?" 

"I  did." 

"She'll  think  you're  crazy!  You  are  crazy. 
You  don't  know  a  thing  about  her." 

Stan's  face  had  taken  on  an  almost  inspired 
look.  "I  know  everything  about  her — more  than 
she  knows  about  herself." 

"Huh !    A  week  ago  you  hadn't  heard  of  her?" 

"I  have  known  her — always !" 

Dodd  sniffed  at  this  mystical  utterance  and  re- 
marked, after  studying  the  Lydig  group  where  dis- 
cord was  fast  developing:  "If  any  one  should 
ask  me,  I'd  say  the  little  lady  has  a  damned  lively 
temper." 

The  star  reached  out  impulsively  and  laid  a 


"I'M  GOING  TO  WIN  HER"        41 

hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder.  "Hammy,  I'm  a 
lonely  fellow.  I  don't  fit  in  very  well  with  this 
movie  crowd.  I  don't  have  much  to  do  with  them 
— you  know  that." 

"It's  just  as  well  you  don't,  with  such  tender 
susceptibilities,"  grinned  the  director.  "Without 
jollying,  Stan,  I  must  hand  it  to  you  that  you've 
never  fallen  for  any  of  our  vamp  queens.  And  I 
guess  you've  had  chances  enough — with  your  face 
spread  over  all  the  bill-boards  in  creation  on 
twenty-four-sheet  posters." 

"I've  never  cared  for  a  woman,"  answered 
Matthews  simply. 

"And  now  you're  going  to  make  up  for  it, 
eh?" 

The  star  went  on  meditatively:  "I'm  not 
much  on  looks.  No  nice  ways.  No  tact  or  savoir 
faire.  And  a  horrible  dresser,  Hammy.  It 
doesn't  matter  how  much  I  pay  for  a  suit  of 
clothes,  it  looks  like  the  devil  as  soon  as  I  get 
into  it.  I'm  exactly  the  kind  of  a  man  Patricia 
Lydig  wouldn't  care  for, — unless — " 

"Patricia  Lydig!     She's  got  a  swell  name." 

"She's  an  aristocrat  and — I'm  a  plebeian;  but, 
Hammy,  I'm  going  to  win  her.  It's  fate.  God 
knows  I'm  not  conceited,  only — there  are  forces 
in  us  so  strong  that,  when  they  are  concentrated 
on  only  one  thing,  they  cannot  be  resisted." 


42  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

The  director  was  more  and  more  impressed. 
"Say,  boy,  we  tough  old  fellows  go  kidding  along 
— don't  show  our  feelings  much,  but — if  there's 
any  little  thing  I  can  do — " 

"Thanks,  Hammy.  There's  one  thing  you  can 
do — it  will  be  a  comfort.  I'm  worried  about — 
this!  I  can  win  that  girl,  I  know  it.  I'm  so  sure 
I  can  win  her  that — the  only  question  is  whether  I 
have  a  right  to  do  it,  whether  it's  exactly — fair." 

"Fair?" 

"I  mean  to  her.  She  won't  love  me  in  the  ideal 
way,  not  at  first.  She  won't  love  me  as  I  love 
her." 

"If  she  don't  love  you,  she'll  turn  you  down." 

"No !  She'll  do  whatever  I  want  her  to  do.  I 
say  that  because — there's  something  tremendous — 
I'll  show  you.  I  never  tried  this,  but  I  know  I  can 
do  it.  That  girl  is  absorbed  in  talking  to  her 
father.  Her  back  is  turned,  isn't  it?  Now  watch ! 
I'm  going  to  look  at  her — in  a  certain  way — it  isn't 
anything  cheap,  like  hypnotism,  it's  just  speaking 
to  her!  Now!" 

Stan  fixed  his  eyes  on  Patricia  with  a  strange 
intensity  and  sat  quite  still.  He  breathed  deeply 
and  his  nostrils  dilated.  A  few  moments  later  the 
young  woman  shifted  uneasily,  then  turned 
squarely  around  and  cast  a  perplexed  glance  to- 


"I'M  GOING  TO  WIN  HER"         43 

wards  the  table  of  the  two  men.  But  she  saw  only 
Hamilton  Dodd,  for  at  that  instant  Stanley, 
following  an  unexplainable  impulse,  leaned  to  one 
side  so  that  he  was  hidden  from  the  girl's  view 
by  one  of  the  massive  brown  columns.  And  a  few 
seconds  later,  as  if  to  complete  the  coincidence, 
the  yellow-spectacled  call  boy  shouted  out:  "Mis- 
ter Stan-ley  Matthews  1" 

"That  beats  anything  I  ever  saw,"  mused  Dodd. 
"Hello!"  He  turned  in  surprise  as  he  saw  that 
his  friend  had  slipped  away,  unnoticed,  and  passed 
out  through  a  screen  door  that  shut  off  the  read- 
ing room.  There  he  stood  beckoning. 

"I  don't  want  her  to  see  me  yet,  Hammy,"  Stan 
explained,  and  led  the  way  to  one  of  the  long 
windows  facing  the  west  where  the  Malibu  Hills 
tower  above  the  Pacific.  He  stood  there  in  awed 
silence  before  a  spread  of  flaming,  deepening  sun- 
set, marked  here  and  there  with  patches  of  azure 
and  pale  green. 

"Some  good  omen,  I'll  say,"  commented  the 
director. 

Stan's  face  brightened  extraordinarily  as  he 
drank  in  the  glory  of  the  colors.  "Yes!  I  be- 
lieve in  omens." 

"You're  going  to  land  her,  boy.  Anything  you 
set  your  heart  on,  you  get.  Remember  how  you 


44  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

broke  into  the  movie  game — when  you  made  that 
jump  that  Morgenstein  was  afraid  of?  Remem- 
ber Rajah — in  the  stockade — do  you?" 

Stanley  Matthews  did  not  answer,  but  stood 
lost  in  grave  reverie,  his  eyes  held  by  the  glory  of 
the  sunset.  When  he  spoke  it  was  in  a  tone 
of  sad  half-shy  self-revelation. 

"It  makes  me  ashamed,  Hammy,  when  you  talk 
like  that.  I'm  not  brave.  I  was  scared  to  death 
when  I  jumped  off  that  bridge.  I  was  scared  to 
death  when  I  unbolted  the  door  of  that  stockade. 
And" — he  hesitated  with  a  sensitive  quiver  of 
the  lips — "I'm  scared  to  death  now,  but — " 

Hamilton  Dodd  stared  at  him.  "For  the  love 
of  Mike — what  for?" 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  going  at  this  thing — too  hard." 

"You  mean  the  girl?" 

"Yes,  but  I  can't  help  it.  It's  my  destiny.  'For 
better,  for  worse,'  I'm  going  to  do  it.  I  want 
her — too  much!" 

His  eyes  were  still  fixed  in  the  west.  His  lips 
moved  slowly  as  he  said  with  a  sort  of  fierce  rev- 
erence, seeming  to  call  upon  that  golden  and  pur- 
ple splendor  to  witness  his  vow:  "I'm  going  to 
win  her." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  PROPOSAL  TREE 

THE  clash  of  wills  had  come  between  Patricia 
and  her  father;  the  girl  had  thrown  down  the 
gauntlet,  demanded  her  liberty,  and  had  been  re- 
fused. Lydig  had  said  to  his  daughter  what  any 
modern  father  would  seem  justified  in  saying: 
"No,  my  dear  child,  as  long  as  I  support  you,  as 
long  as  you  owe  everything  to  your  mother  and 
to  me,  I  expect  you  to  give  reasonable  considera- 
tion to  our  wishes  and  opinions  touching  your 
behavior." 

He  had  said  this  kindly,  but  firmly,  and  Patsy 
had  answered  with  a  virtual  defiance.  If  her 
parents  persisted  in  thwarting  her  wishes  and 
telling  her  what  she  might  and  might  not  do,  she 
would  take  the  law  into  her  own  hands  and  work 
out  her  own  salvation. 

But  how  was  this  to  be  accomplished?  How 
could  she  carry  out  her  threat?  What  about 
money?  She  could  not  get  it  from  her  father, 
and,  even  if  she  could,  she  had  too  much  pride  to 

45 


46  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

ask  for  it.  Yet  without  money  she  could  do 
nothing.  It  would  cost  her  two  hundred  dollars, 
for  example,  merely  to  get  to  New  York,  and,  if 
she  managed  to  get  there,  then  what?  How 
could  she  live? 

Patricia  was  one  of  thousands  of  American 
girls  who  from  babyhood  have  received  "advan- 
tages" that  often  in  the  end  prove  to  be  dis- 
advantages. For,  in  spite  of  their  society  ex- 
perience, their  smattering  of  art,  French,  music, 
biology,  zoology,  sociology,  physics,  civics  and 
other  cultural  things  that  they  have  "had"  in  our 
select  private  schools  (and  promptly  forgotten), 
these  charming  young  ladies  have  never  learned 
to  support  themselves;  they  can  do  nothing  well 
enough  to  be  paid  for  it  in  the  open  market;  often 
they  can  do  nothing  that  would  even  lift  them  out 
of  the  ranks  of  unskilled  labor.  Nevertheless 
they  demand  their  independence,  plus  a  bank  ac- 
count. 

These  girls  ought  to  be  the  radiant  flower  of 
our  national  young  womanhood,  since  everything 
that  love  and  care  can  suggest  has  been  done  for 
them,  but,  alas!  they  are  restless  and  dissatisfied, 
openly  or  secretly  rebellious — most  of  them. 

So  it  was  with  Patricia  who  now  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life  found  herself  in  a  position  where 


THE  PROPOSAL  TREE  47 

she  must  either  "make  good"  through  her  own 
efforts  or  acknowledge  that  much  of  her  confident 
talk  had  been  mere  bravado.  What  was  she  go- 
ing to  do? 

All  through  the  day  following  the  family  dis- 
agreement Patsy  labored  over  this  problem  with 
a  maddening  sense  of  her  own  helplessness  in  the 
face  of  material  necessities.  There  must  be  some 
way  for  her  to  justify  her  existence,  to  show  her 
father  that  she  was  not  a  mere  talker;  but  what? 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  baffled  but  determined, 
the  girl  took  to  the  mountain  trail  for  inspira- 
tion. It  lured  her  on  with  treacherous  mauve 
shadows  that  promised  unspeakable  wonders  just 
beyond,  but  changed  at  her  approach,  leaving 
bare,  scarred,  sage-covered  hills.  Money? 
Where  was  she  to  get  the  money  that  would  open 
for  her  the  door  of  freedom? 

Suddenly,  she  became  aware  of  voices  and  dis- 
covered two  girls,  blondine  and  made-up  like  sav- 
ages, who  were  pinning  white  slips  of  paper  to  a 
Jow,  wide-spreading  tree  close  to  the  trail  some 
feet  below.  She  drew  near  and  stared  curiously. 
All  the  branches  were  ticketed  with  little  notes, 
like  a  Christmas  tree  alight  with  candles!  Ah, 
of  course !  This  must  be  the  Proposal  Tree  that 
the  amazing  Stanley  Matthews  had  referred  to. 


48  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

What  a  preposterously  sentimental  idea  I  Could 
he  actually  have  hoped  that  she  would  pin  an 
answer  here? 

Leaping  down  the  steep  bank,  she  precipitated 
herself  before  the  two  fantastic  strangers  who 
greeted  her  genially,  unconscious  of  their  blue  and 
yellow  grease  paint. 

"Hello!"  exclaimed  one.  "Come  after  a  pro- 
posal?" 

"Proposal?"  Patsy  hazarded,  pretending  ig- 
norance. Could  they  be  members  of  the  movie 
company  that  was  headed  by  her  unknown  suitor? 

The  other  shrilled  in  glee.  "She  isn't  on! 
The  guide  must  have  neglected  his  dooty.  'Why 
this,  ladies  and  gents,'  "  she  gave  a  creditable  imi- 
tation, "  'is  the  Proposal  Tree.  Just  pin  your 
bid  for  a  husband  on  one  of  these  branches,  and 
he'll  be  handed  over.'  " 

"We're  fishing  for  our  star,  Stan  Matthews," 
giggled  the  first  one,  "but  there's  no  landing  him." 

Patricia  pricked  up  her  ears. 

"Making  pictures  here?" 

"Yep,  just  up  the  trail.  Rest  of  the  company 
will  be  along  soon — Stan  with  'em.  We'd  bet- 
ter beat  it." 

Which  they  presently  did,  leaving  the  new- 
comer to  her  somber  thoughts. 


THE  PROPOSAL  TREE  49 

The  sun  went  down.  The  sky  crimsoned. 
The  air  grew  sharp  and  penetrating,  warning  that 
darkness  would  fall  swiftly.  Patricia  reviewed 
that  angry  scene  with  her  father  and  now  an  idea 
struck  her  only  to  be  dismissed;  but  it  came  back 
temptingly.  Why  not?  Her  parents  took  it  for 
granted  that  she  was  a  foolish  little  thing,  why 
not  be  foolish?  Why  not  answer  Stanley  Mat- 
thews' letter  and  have  the  satisfaction  of  know- 
ing that  her  father,  by  his  unreasonableness,  had 
driven  her  into  doing  this,  the  very  thing  that  she 
had  decided  not  to  do?  Now  she  would  answer 
the  letter ! 

She  drew  nearer  the  Proposal  Tree,  her  heart 
beating  absurdly,  and,  following  an  impulse  that 
had  now  become  irresistible,  she  traced  Stanley 
Matthews'  name  on  a  piece  of  paper,  penciled  un- 
der it  a  crazy  little  caricature  of  herself  and 
signed  her  initials.  Circling  the  tree,  she  chose 
her  branch  with  care,  first  stringing  the  paper  onto 
a  long  scarlet  silk  tie,  of  which  she  divested  her- 
self, and  sent  it  a-flutter.  Then  at  the  sound  of 
footsteps  on  the  trail,  and  deep  resonant  voices, 
Pat  took  to  her  heels  and  ran. 

An  hour  later  Patricia  came  down  to  dinner  in 
a  meek  gray  silk  gown  that  her  father  approved, 
and  played  up  to  his  idea  of  the  cut-paper-pattern 


5o  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

daughter;  but  before  the  meal  was  over  she  re- 
gretted her  idiocy  at  the  Proposal  Tree  and  made 
up  her  mind  to  go  after  that  bit  of  compromising 
paper  just  as  soon  as  the  moon  would  "oblige." 

The  moon  rose  late,  the  guests  retired  early, 
so  Pat  had  the  trail  to  herself  when  she  slipped 
away.  An  unearthly  quiet  brooded  over  the  hills 
and  canons.  Eerie  night  sounds  made  her  start 
every  few  seconds — the  soft  whirr  of  some  bird 
disturbed  on  its  nest,  the  hoot  of  an  owl,  a 
loosened  rock  rushing  down  a  shale-covered  preci- 
pice. 

As  she  reached  the  Proposal  Tree  a  blood- 
curdling yelp  cut  the  intense  stillness  of  the  night, 
transfixing  her  with  horror.  A  wild  vision  of  a 
California  mountain  lion  came  to  her,  and  as  she 
turned  to  flee  she  found  herself  face  to  face  with 
the  man,  the  sandy-haired  individual  who  had 
haunted  her  movements  and  her  imagination. 

"It's  only  a  coyote,"  he  said  with  quiet  serious- 
ness, not  wasting  breath  on  preliminaries.  The 
girl  had  a  suspicion  that  he  wanted  to  laugh,  but 
would  not  have  done  so  for  worlds. 

She  took  a  quick  inventory  of  this  stranger, 
checked  off  his  bigness,  the  sincere  ring  of  his 
voice,  his  clean-shaven,  irregular,  emphatic  fea- 
tures, and  squarely-met  eye.  She  chose  him  in 
preference  to  the  coyote. 


THE  PROPOSAL  TREE  51 

"Come  along,"  he  said  with  fine  disregard  of 
the  girl's  unknown  wishes,  as  she  hesitated,  to- 
ward him.  "We'll  explore  this  trail  a  bit  far- 
ther. But  wait!  .  .  ."  he  turned,  unknotted  the 
fluttering  tie  and,  after  chuckling  over  the  cari- 
cature of  Patricia,  folded  it  neatly,  ready  for  his 
pocket. 

Patsy  snatched  at  it  childishly.  "Give  it  to 
me — it's  mine,"  she  protested  in  a  feeble,  sharp- 
edged  soprano  that  had  no  chance  against  his 
lordly  baritone:  "Say,  hands  off,  please.  This 
is  mine!  You  see  I'm  Stanley  Matthews." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  HUSBAND  OF  HER  DREAMS 

THE  next  morning  Patricia  awoke  with  an  an- 
ticipatory start.  Just  what  .  .  .  then  she  re- 
membered. This  preposterous  man — Stanley 
Matthews !  There  was  something  about  his  as- 
sertive personality  that  fascinated  her.  His  eyes 
were  absurdly  full  of  candor,  at  times  they  shone 
and  danced  like  a  youngster's.  A  fine  strong  face, 
but  overhung  by  that  shock  of  thick  reddish  hair, 
her  particular  abomination.  Patsy  had  often  de- 
clared that  she  would  rather  die  an  old  maid  than 
have  a  red-headed  husband.  Wait!  Where  was 
that  joyous  description  she  had  amused  herself 
by  writing  a  year  or  so  ago  of  the  husband  of  her 
dreams? 

Chuckling  at  this  remembrance,  Patricia  leaped 
out  of  bed  and,  searching  through  the  disorder  of 
her  bureau  drawers,  came  upon  a  leather-bound 
note  book  wherein  were  several  pages  of  her  dash- 
ing handwriting  under  this  title,  "The  Great  Un- 
known," and  beginning: 

"In  the  first  place,  he  must  be  taller  than  I — 
52 


THE  HUSBAND  OF  HER  DREAMS     53 

the  taller  the  better — so  I  can  tell  that  he's  there 
when  we  dance;  so  that  when  he  kisses  me  I  can 
know  the  glorious  expanding  feeling  of  having  to 
reach  to  get  my  arms  around  his  neck;  and  at  the 
same  time,  paradoxically,  have  the  sensation  of 
being  entirely  surrounded  and  cut  off  from  the 
rest  of  the  universe  by  him." 

"All  right  so  far,  friend  Stanley,"  she  smiled 
at  this  exuberance.  "You're  tall  enough,  but  I 
guess  that's  about  the  end  of  your  qualifications." 
And  she  read  on : 

"I  want  him  to  be  the  kind  of  person  who  will 
inspire  all  girls  to  clutch  each  other  and  exclaim, 
'My  dear,  isn't  he  too  divine !'  whom  all  men  will 
admire  and  desire  to  meet ;  whom  all  servants  will 
dote  on  (this  will  make  it  so  much  easier  for  me)  ; 
who  will  delight  the  souls  of  all  children,  dogs  and 
casual  old  women. 

"I  prefer  him  to  be  dark  rather  than  blond; 
however,  I  only  demand  that  he  shan't  be  red- 
headed. Red-headed  men  always  get  scarlet,  and 
blotchy,  and  blistered,  and  repulsive  when  they 
sunburn;  and  they  swarm  with  big  scrawly  freckles 
like  red  ants." 

"There!  I  told  you  so,"  she  exulted.  "You 
see  you'll  never  do,  Mr.  Matthews.  Never!" 
She  read  on,  amused  at  this  modest  summary  of 
her  matrimonial  requirements: 


54  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

"I  want  him  to  have  good  taste  in  furniture, 
books,  music,  art,  plays,  movies;  be  able  to  drive 
any  kind  of  car;  play  bridge,  golf,  tennis;  ride 
the  wildest  horse  with  baffling  ease  and  distinc- 
tion; understand  all  about  baseball,  politics,  stocks 
and  bonds,  and  whatever  junk  it  might  be  useful 
for  me  to  know  about  sometime. 

"I  want  him  to  be  a  stalwart  boxer  too,  so  that 
he  could  knock  down  any  man  whatsoever  who 
might  offend  me.  Nothing  would  thrill  me  more 
than  to  have  such  an  occasion  arise.  Also,  though 
I  don't  require  it,  almost  more  than  anything  else 
I'd  love  to  have  him  be  able  to  sing  in  a  nice,  deep, 
husky  voice  that  catches  one  inside.  Then,  some- 
times in  the  evening  he  could  strum  on  a  banjo 
or  Hawaiian  guitar,  and  sing  queer,  amusing, 
delectable  songs,  while  I'd  lounge  at  his  feet,  with 
lots  of  cushions  at  my  back,  draw  fantastic  pic- 
tures, drink  orangeade,  and  adore  him." 

"I  suppose  my  ardent  one  wins  out  on  the  stal- 
wart boxer  requirement,"  she  mused,  "but  when 
it  came  to  good  taste — O  Great  Gopher  Prairie  I" 

Then,  skimming  a  few  paragraphs,  Patricia 
came  to  this: 

"In  conclusion,  I  want  a  husband  who  has  led 
a  life  of  adventure,  I  don't  care  whether  he  got 
expelled  from  six  schools,  or  ran  away  to  Paris, 


THE  HUSBAND  OF  HER  DREAMS     55 

or  joined  a  circus,  or  lived  as  a  tramp,  but  he 
must  have  done  something.  (I  couldn't  stand 
a  man  who  had  been  brought  up  in  a  small  town, 
and  had  always  stuck  there.)  He  must  have  a 
past.  However,  above  all  things,  he  must  be  un- 
mistakably, inexorably,  and  immutably  a  gentle- 
man, I  mean  to  the  extent  if  he  were  found  drunk 
in  a  red  shirt  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  in 
the  middle  of  Third  Avenue  and  Fourteenth 
Street,  he  would  be  as  bewitching,  as  refined,  as 
graceful,  as  attractive,  as  unquestionably  superior 
as  ever. 

"Postscript.  Besides  these  requisites  and  sug- 
gestions, he  must  naturally  have  money.  The 
idea  of  a  threadbare  young  couple  in  a  garret  with 
one  tea-cup  between  them  may  have  romantic  pos- 
sibilities, but  it  doesn't  impress  me  as  the  ideal 
form  of  connubial  felicity." 

"I  don't  want  much,  do  I  ?"  she  laughed,  as  she 
tossed  the  book  back  into  the  drawer. 

With  a  certain  pleasurable  apprehensiveness 
Patricia  recalled  that  she  had  promised  to  meet 
her  worshiper  again  this  very  afternoon.  After 
all  she  might  as  well  pluck  a  little  amusement 
against  the  general  boredom.  Besides  she  had 
never  encountered  such  a  will  as  his.  It  was  like 
flint — good-natured  flint!  Undintable!  Very 


56  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

well!  He  would  find  out  how  far  he  could  get 
with  this  masculine  determination.  She  had  a 
will  of  her  own. 

So  they  met,  as  arranged,  near  Observation 
Rock,  and  almost  at  once  her  barbarian  asserted 
himself  bafflingly,  as  before. 

"Better  sit  down  on  this  bowlder — no,  here!" 
he  decided  against  her  preference.  "Oh,  yes,  you 
do  like  this  side  of  the  road.  Look  at  that  view !" 

And  Patricia  sat  on  his  side  of  the  road,  sat 
there  and  listened  with  genuine  interest  to  his  talk 
— about  himself,  his  work,  his  purposes.  She  felt 
that  this  man  had  courage,  real  courage,  not  a 
melodramatic  parody  of  it.  And  yet  he  wasn't  a 
cave  man  either.  Just  when  she  was  labeling  him 
one  he  showed  superb  open-mindedness  to  her 
ideas,  a  lamb-like  gentleness,  a  disconcerting 
modesty. 

That  night  she  wrote  in  her  diary:  "I  have 
heard  of  a  man  being  so  homely  that  he  is  hand- 
some. On  second  thought  no  one  could  call  Stan- 
ley Matthews  homely,  no  discerning  person.  He 
is  too  arresting.  Too  fascinating. 

"Why  am  I  thrilled  by  his  stories,  I  who  was 
always  irritated  by  the  doting  Desdemona  and  her 
valorous  Moor?  Perhaps  because  Stan  is  never 
conceited.  He  courts  the  abstract  in  an  admir- 
able way.  The  inner  man  dominates  his  outer 


THE  HUSBAND  OF  HER  DREAMS     57 

manifestations.     That  sounds  like  the  catechism, 
but — never  mind  I" 

And  the  next  day  she  wrote  this  confession: 
"He  kissed  me!  He  dared!  Only  the  second 
day!  I  didn't  like  it.  He  bent  my  head  back  un- 
til it  hurt  my  neck.  I  resisted:  'No,  please, 
don't — Oh !...'!  mumbled  against  his  cheek. 
I  made  my  body  taut,  bracing  myself  against  his 
power.  I  did  not  want  to  kiss  him.  But  ...  to 
my  shame  I  write  it  ...  my  lips  betrayed 
me  .  .  ." 

The  third  day  of  Stanley  Matthews  came,  and 
Patsy  decided  that  she  must  put  an  end  to  him  and 
his  hopes;  but  somehow  she  did  not.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  he  would  be  an  impossible  husband  .  . 
except  that  she  could  wave  good-by  to  poverty. 
New  York  with  Stan's  money  would  be  a  lark; 
but  what  could  she  do  with  him?  No,  she 
couldn't  think  of  it.  But  she  did! 

Thus  the  days  passed  until  the  sixth  after  their 
encounter  on  the  trail. 

"If  you're  the  star  of  this  movie  bunch  up 
here,  why  are  you  playing  around  with  me? 
Don't  you  ever  work?"  she  asked  him. 

"Work!"  exclaimed  the  great  fellow,  stretched 
out  full  length  on  a  huge  bowlder  under  some 
sycamores,  "you  can  bet  your  jolly  boots  I  work. 
I'm  doing  the  hardest  stunt  right  now  I  ever  tried 


58  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

to  pull  off.  I'm  going  to  marry  you.  The  whole 
grouching  bunch  can  wait  and  lose  money  until 
I  get  you." 

Patsy  gasped,  ignoring  his  eyes,  for  he  had 
drawn  himself  into  a  sitting  posture  and  tried  to 
claim  her  gaze. 

"And  you  dared  hold  up  the  whole  company 
for  that!" 

"I  did,"  he  said  serenely. 

"At  a  loss  .  .  .  ?" 

"About  a  thousand  a  day." 

"It's  disgraceful.  You  know  as  well  as  I  that 
you  are  wasting  your  time  and  their  money.  I'll 
never  marry  you.  You're  an  absurd  person  I" 

"Perhaps,"  he  smiled,  and  her  heart  missed  a 
beat 

"Stan  Matthews,  don't  keep  on  with  this  silly 
bravado.  It's  compelling,  I  admit;  you're  gor- 
geously reckless  and  adventurous,  but  I'm  adven- 
turous, too.  I'm  reaching  out — to  other  things. 
You're  not  the  kind  of  man  I  plan  to  marry,  not 
at  all." 

"Shall  we  go  home?"  he  asked  complacently. 
"I  suppose  it's  not  quite  time  for  your  parents  to 
know  about  me;  it's  no  use  to  worry  them — yet." 

Patricia  made  more  promises  to  herself  that 
she  would  not  see  Stan  again,  but  she  did  not  mean 
to  keep  them  and  knew  that  she  did  not.  The 


THE  HUSBAND  OF  HER  DREAMS     59 

seventh  evening  found  her  swinging  down  the 
trail  at  his  side,  as  usual.  As  they  moved  along 
he  hummed : 

"There's  a  long,  long  trail  a-winding, 
Into  the  land  of  my  dreams." 

"You  might  get  a  more  up-to-date  song,"  she 
twitted  him. 

Ignoring  this,  he  said  seriously:  "To-morrow 
night  we'll  go  down  that  trail  for  keeps,  sweet- 
heart." 

She  opened  her  lips  to  protest,  but  he  closed 
them  with  a  kiss.  She  put  out  her  arms  and 
pushed  herself  away  from  him.  "No!"  she  pro- 
tested weakly.  "No!"  and  she  went  back  to  his 
arms. 

"Now  tell  me  this,"   he  whispered.     "Say  it 
after  me,  just  to  please  me,  dear  girl.     I  want  to 
hear  you  say  it.    Say,  Tm  going  to  marry  you,'  ' 
he  ordered. 

Thrilled  in  spite  of  herself  she  obeyed.  "I — 
I'm  going  to  marry  you." 

"  'To-morrow  night' — say  it." 

"To-morrow  night." 

"  'Darling'— say  it." 

"D-darling!"  she  stammered. 

Then  he  kissed  her  again  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VII 

PATRICIA   ELOPES 

"Home  is  not  always  where  we  are  born — it  is  among  ideas 
that  are  dear  to  us." 

THEN  came  the  next  day  .  .  . 

It  was  after  dinner,  in  the  fading  twilight. 
The  Lydig  family  were  seated  on  the  piazza  of 
the  Inn,  apparently  reading,  really  busy  with  their 
thoughts.  Newton  Lydig,  full  of  tenderness  for 
his  daughter,  a  tenderness  that  was  belied  by  his 
rather  severe  intellectual  appearance,  was  won- 
dering what  the  outcome  of  his  quarrel  with  Pa- 
tricia would  be.  Patsy  had  changed  during  the 
last  week.  She  had  ceased  storming.  She 
hadn't  said  a  word  about  hating  these  moun- 
tains— suspicious  circumstance!  Nor  had  she 
even  mentioned  New  York.  On  the  contrary  she 
had  been  gentle  and  conciliatory;  none  of  which 
had  in  the  least  deceived  her  father.  This  only 
meant  that  she  had  come  to  some  new  decision. 
She  was  planning  something — but  what? 

60 


PATRICIA  ELOPES  61 

The  novelist  turned  to  his  wife,  who  was  near 
him,  and  said  in  a  low  tone:  "She  isn't  recon- 
ciled, is  she?" 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  sighed  the  mother. 

"She's  rebellious — in  her  heart?" 

Helen  Lydig  smiled  mysteriously,  then  with 
that  light  of  faith  in  her  eyes  that  always  com- 
forted her  and  reproached  her  husband's  im- 
patience: "We  mustn't  worry  about  this,  dear. 
It  will  work  itself  out  all  right.  You  know  there 
are  two  Patricias." 

"Two  Patricias!"  he  reflected.  "I  suppose  so. 
Well,  that  puts  a  big  responsibility  on  the  other 
one!" 

He  turned  to  his  newspaper  and  tried  to  ab- 
sorb himself  in  the  financial  report  of  the  New 
York  Times,  but  did  not  see  the  figures.  His 
heart  was  yearning  toward  his  child.  If  he  could 
only  protect  her  against  herself  through  this  pe- 
riod of  immaturity,  guarding  her  without  seem- 
ing to,  without  stirring  her  ever-ready  resentment. 
But  his  opinions  carried  so  little  weight  with 
her.  All  sorts  of  people  deferred  to  him, 
asked  his  advice  about  this  or  that  (as  hap- 
pens with  writers)  and  apparently  valued  it;  but 
not  Patricia.  On  the  contrary,  his  opinions 
drove  her  rather  in  the  opposite  direction.  How 
strange  this  sense  of  mutual  antagonism  be- 


62  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

tween  a  father  and  daughter  who  really  love  each 
other! 

•  •*•••• 

And  Patricia,  as  she  skimmed  her  book,  was 
thinking  in  a  tumult  of  Stan  and  the  promise  she 
had  made.  There  before  her  eyes  was  their 
appointment,  scribbled  on  a  slip  of  paper  in  his 
decided  handwriting — she  was  to  meet  him 
down  the  trail  at  eleven.  She  glanced  at  her 
wrist-watch — a  quarter  past  eight!  In  less  than 
three  hours  this  incredible  thing  would  have  hap- 
pened! 

Stanley  had  wished  to  tell  her  parents  of  their 
engagement,  but  Patricia  had  assured  him  that  if 
he  really  wanted  her,  he  had  better  take  her  on 
the  wing — he  would  not  have  the  ghost  of  a 
chance  with  her  father.  The  thought  of  New- 
ton Lydig  father-in-lawing  a  movie  star  was 
too  much  for  Pat's  gravity,  more  than  she 
had  dreamed  of  in  her  most  deliriously  daring 
moments. 

Just  then  the  wind,  erratic  imp,  whisked  away 
her  lover's  penciled  message  and  fluttered  it,  en- 
ticingly, under  her  father's  very  eye.  Pat  waited 
breathless  while  he  stooped,  picked  up  the  slip, 
adjusted  his  black-rimmed  pince-nez,  frowned, 
then  glanced  at  his  daughter. 

"That's  mine,  I  guess,   Father,"   the  girl  re- 


PATRICIA  ELOPES  63 

marked  casually,  flipping  over  a  page  with  well- 
assumed  nonchalance. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  then  turned  the  note  ovor  again 
and  handed  it  back  ceremoniously  without  com- 
ment! 

Patricia  sighed  in  relief.  It  had  been  a  close 
call.  What  if  her  father  had  read  that  note  I 
But  of  course  he  hadn't.  If  he  had  he  would 
have  said  something.  A  little  later  she  escaped 
to  her  room  and  began  her  packing,  pondering 
the  momentous  question  whether  to  put  in  a  pink 
or  a  blue  negligee.  She  preferred  the  blue,  but 
pink  made  her  look  softer,  more  appealing,  and 
it  might  be  well  to  play  up  the  traditional  quality 
of  the  bride. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  sharp  rap  at  the  door 
and  a  summons  from  her  father  to  come  down  at 
once.  Her  father  knew!  He  had  only  waited 
so  that  he  might  collect  himself  for  a  difficult  and 
painful  scene. 

Patricia  came,  carrying  her  hand-bag,  and  made 
no  attempt  at  denial  or  evasion.  She  answered 
her  father  quietly,  looking  at  him  out  of  steady 
gray  eyes,  and  admitted  that  it  was  true — she  was 
going  away — this  very  night — with  a  man  she  was 
going  to  marry.  She  said  all  this  with  that  cul- 
tured self-control  that  always  exasperated  her 
father. 


64  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

In  the  interview  that  followed  Lydig  begged 
his  daughter  to  wait  for  a  few  days  before  taking 
this  irrevocable  step.  Let  her  at  least  give  them 
time  to  meet  her  prospective  husband  and  know 
something  about  him;  and  to  understand  why  she 
had  chosen  him  so  suddenly,  why  she  had  thought 
it  best  not  to  present  him  to  her  father  and 
mother. 

But  the  girl  only  insisted  that  this  would  do  no 
good.  Her  father  would  not  consent,  and — she 
had  made  up  her  mind. 

"What  is  his  name,  Patricia?"  asked  the 
mother. 

"His  name  is  Matthews,  Stanley  Matthews." 

"How  long  have  you  known  him?" 

"About  two  weeks." 

"You  met  him  here  in  California?  You  didn't 
know  him  in  New  York?" 

"No." 

"What  is  his  business — his  occupation?"  ques- 
tioned Lydig. 

Patricia's  chin  lifted  a  little  as  she  faced  her 
father,  half  pleadingly;  then  she  made  as  if  to 
speak,  but  he  cut  her  short. 

"After  all,  what  difference  does  it  make? 
You're  bound  to  marry  him — now?" 

She  hesitated,  realizing  that  this  was  her  final 
word,  and  tried  to  be  conciliatory. 


PATRICIA  ELOPES  65 

"Would  you  like  to  meet  him,  Father,  if  I  send 
for  him?" 

"You  simply  wish  to  present  him  to  us,  Pat? 
You  do  not  admit  any  discussion  of  the  main  ques- 
tion?" 

"I — I'm  going  to  marry  him,  Father." 

Lydig  looked  at  his  wife  and  realized  that  she 
was  at  the  limit  of  her  strength.  Then  he  made 
some  strong  remarks  about  ingratitude.  In 
thinking  it  over  afterward  the  father  felt  that 
perhaps  he  lost  an  opportunity  here  to  change  his 
child  by  gentleness ;  but  he  could  do  no  more.  He 
too  had  reached  his  limit. 

So  the  break  came  at  once. 

Patricia  went  on  to  say  (keeping  her  voice  as- 
tonishingly low)  that  she  did  not  mean  to  be  un- 
loving or  undutiful,  but  she  had  thought  this  over 
and  had  decided — had  given  her  promise — for 
good  and  sufficient  reasons — 

"What  reasons?"  Lydig  demanded  harshly. 
"I'd  like  to  know  what  reasons  seem  good  and 
sufficient  to  you  for  treating  your  mother  and  me 
as  if — as  if  we  were — nothing  to  you!" 

The  mother  was  crying  softly  as  Patsy  went 
to  her.  "Please  don't  cry,  Mother.  It  doesn't 
do  any  good."  Then  she  turned  away,  after 
kissing  her  mother,  who  clung  to  her,  weeping, 
and  started  down  the  trail. 


66  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

A  moment  later  she  was  gone. 

II 

Such  a  night!  The  yawning  canons  below 
were  swimming  with  mist  and  moonlight.  The 
mountains  towered  above,  majestic,  appalling  in 
their  strength.  The  pungent  sweetness  of  sage 
and  pine,  the  disturbing  scent  of  the  sun-saturated 
earth,  claimed  her  senses. 

From  some  unknown  corner  of  her  brain  fear 
leaped.  What  had  she  done?  Who  was  this 
man  to  whom  she  was  going?  A  product  of  this 
great,  bizarre  West,  so  fierce,  undisciplined,  and 
lacking  in  nuances.  Stan's  great  shoulders  were 
a  little  like  these  rugged  mountains.  And  his 
mind — she  had  explored  it  so  little.  Might 
it  not  enchant  and  enslave  like  this  terrifying 
splendor  of  the  night?  She  shivered  and  her 
thoughts  went  rushing  back  to  that  safe,  if 
tedious,  past  that  she  was  putting  away  from 
her  forever. 

A  sharp  end  in  the  trail,  a  dark  figure  loom- 
ing portentously,  a  sudden  sickening  leap  of  her 
heart — then  she  was  caught  close  in  Stan's  hun- 
gry embrace;  the  salt  of  her  sudden  rush  of  tears 
mingled  with  his  kisses. 


PATRICIA  ELOPES  67 

III 

For  anguished  hours  through  that  night  the 
father  sat  by  his  window  looking  out  at  the  pur- 
ple mountains,  the  drenching  moonlight,  at  snow- 
covered  Baldy,  there  in  the  distance,  rising  silver 
white  above  the  range  .  .  .  thinking!  Then,  as 
an  outlet  for  pent-up  feelings  that  called  for  some 
expression,  he  wrote  in  his  diary: 

"She  has  gone!  .  .  . 

"Patricia !  Our  only  child,  so  tenderly  loved, 
upon  whom  so  many  hopes  were  centered  .  .  . 
gone !  Was  it  for  this  that  we  brought  her  up, 
heaped  advantages  upon  her,  were  patient  with 
her,  proud  of  her — for  this,  that  she  might  turn 
from  us  in  a  moment,  and,  without  a  word  of 
warning,  leave  us  for  a  stranger  who  signed  him- 
self 'Stan'  and  said  he  would  be  waiting  for  her 
down  the  trail  at  eleven? 

"God!     What's  the  use  of  loving  a  child?" 

"A  foolish  little  memory  .  .  .  that  day  in 

Paris  when  George  B persuaded  me  to  cut 

off  my  mustache.  Patsy  met  me  at  the  door  when 
I  came  home  (she  was  only  eight)  and  drew  back, 
startled  at  my  altered  countenance. 

"  'What's  the  matter,  Dinkels?'  I  smiled  awk- 


68  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

wardly.  'Don't  you  know  Father?  Aren't  you 
going  to  kiss  Father?' 

il  i  he  child  hesitated,  her  lip  quivered,  her  eyes 
filled  slowly  with  tears. 

"  'You  know,  Father,  I — I  shall  always  love 
you  just  as  much,'  she  stammered  in  sweet  dis- 
tress, 'no  matter  how — how  homely  you  are !'  ' 

"Ah,  Patricia,  my  child!  You  have  held  my 
heart  in  the  hollow  of  your  hand  from  the  mo- 
ment I  heard  your  first  cry.  All  your  willful- 
ness, your  egotism,  all  our  disagreements,  have 
not  altered  this  deep  and  tender  love  for  you  that 
still  abides.  No  action  of  yours  can  destroy  my 
faith  in  the  fundamentally  fine  woman  you  are 
arid  are  to  be.  Life  will  point  the  way,  as  I 
could  not." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PATRICIA   CUTS   OFF    HER    HAIR 

WE  left  our  lovers  on  the  mountain  height, 
drinking  in  with  rapturous  silence  the  beauty  of 
the  valley  far  below  with  its  millions  of  winking 
lights.  Great  drifts  of  white  mist  floated  like  lost 
spirits  in  the  canons.  California  ceased  to  be 
California.  It  was  just  their  world  to  explore. 

An  hour  later  they  were  married  in  a  little  vine- 
covered  rectory  at  Pasadena  whither  they  were 
whisked  in  Stanley's  car;  and  Patricia  discovered 
to  her  surprise  that  her  real  name  was,  not  Mrs. 
Stanley  Matthews,  but  Mrs.  Arthur  Stanley 
Creighton,  Matthews  being  a  name  assumed  for 
movie  purposes. 

"Wasn't  that  poor  old  divine  a  scream?"  the 
girl  whispered,  when  they  were  back  in  the  car. 
"You  ought  to  get  him  to  go  into  the  movies, 
dear.  I've  never  seen  such  a  rectory-rector  off 
the  screen.  One  would  have  thought  he  was  con- 
signing us  to  perdition,  judging  by  his  studied 
melancholy." 

69 


70  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

Her  newly-made  husband  smiled,  but  he  said: 
"Don't,  Patsy — please." 

Surreptitiously  she  shot  a  quick  glance  at  him 
and  saw  that  his  face  was  quivering.  She  had  a 
half-suspicion  that  his  eyes  were  misty,  and  moved 
toward  him.  The  queerest  thing — a  lump  came 
into  her  throat !  She  wanted  to  cry.  She  clung 
to  him. 

"You  lovely  thing,"  he  kept  saying,  his  lips 
close  to  her  cheek.  "Oh!  you  dear,  dear  girl! — 
my  wife!" 

•  •••*•• 

Ten  days  in  a  lovers'  retreat  in  the  Arroyo, 
ten  wonderful,  breathless  days  that  made  life  seem 
to  Patricia  like  a  shining  river  stretching  away 
before  her  eager  eyes,  glinting  and  beckoning  in 
the  sunshine,  promising  ineffable  happiness,  be- 
yond, just  beyond. 

"Not  a  cloud  on  the  horizon,"  she  wrote  in  her 
diary  on  the  third  day.  "The  sails  of  my  ad- 
venturous craft  are  set  for  that  enchanting  wind 
of  good  fortune  which  has  brought  me — my  hus- 
band, Stan." 

On  the  next  day  she  wrote :  "I  always  knew 
that  if  father  would  stop  inhibiting  my  actions, 
everything  would  clear  up.  It  has  marvel- 
ously.  There  is  a  surprise  at  every  bend, 
until  I  am  in  danger  of  becoming  that  ob- 


PATRICIA  CUTS  OFF  HER  HAIR      71 

noxiously  old-fashioned  thing — an  enthusiast." 
And  again  she  wrote:  "I've  been  haunted  by 
an  idea  that  father  and  mother  could  never  have 
experienced — could  never  have  been — like  Stan 
and  me!  If  they  were,  how  can  our  elders  train 
themselves  into  such  cast-iron  miracles  of  repres- 
sion? What  is  the  matter  with  their  memories — 
with  their  sympathies  for  young  people?" 

And  again :  "I  know  why  our  elders  storm  at 
us,  'the  unregenerate  new  generation';  they  are 
peeved  that  they  have  jogged  alone  past  the  mile- 
stone where  they  can  plunge  in,  too,  and  enjoy  us 
and  our  joys!  If  father  were  only  a  modern  edi- 
tion of  the  young  man  he  once  was,  he  would  hail 
a  girl  like  myself  with  enthusiasm.  It  is  so  silly 
of  him  to  try  to  pull  the  wool  over  my  eyes  by  his 
model  conduct  of  to-day.  Can't  I  read  the  elo- 
quent French  dots  ...  in  his  books  and  see  a 
few  pictures  of  his  youth  myself?  And  I'm  as 
glad  that  he  owned  those  delicious  dots  ...  as 
I  am  sorry  he  disowns  them!  He  would  have 
-been  so  much  more  fun  if  he  would  have  taken 
me  for  an  equal  and  comrade;  chatted  over  some 
of  his  reminiscences  with  me  in  friendly  fashion, 
instead  of  sitting  aloft  in  Great  High  Mogul  lone- 
liness, demanding  my  respect. 

"Why  is  a  daughter  supposed  to  be  a  little 


72  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

carved  ivory  image  of  the  Madonna?  Why  not 
let  her  be  what  is  bound  to  be,  a  flesh  and  blood 
woman — like  other  women?  It  is  all  so  utterly 
inconsistent." 

Patricia's  first  step  into  liberty  was  to  have  her 
hair  cut  off.  Never  would  she  forget  the  sensa- 
tion of  those  cold  shears  on  her  neck,  the  way  her 
head  bobbed  forward,  the  heavy  dropping  of  her 
hair.  Little  shivers  ran  down  her  spine.  The 
deed  was  done ! 

The  barber  uttered  an  exclamation;  two  white- 
aproned  women  in  the  beauty  parlor  turned  to 
look  with  little  ahs  and  ohs  of  regret.  And 
Patsy  overheard  whispers : 

"Such  gorgeous  hair!" 

"What  a  pity!" 

"A  shame!" 

"What  a  silly  little  fool!" 

At  first  she  sat  calm  and  unmoved.  How  light 
and  conquering  her  head  felt!  She  picked  up  a 
hand  mirror  and  studied  herself  in  the  big  glass 
before  her.  The  reflection  smiled  back,  eyes 
alight  with  excitement.  She  ran  her  hands 
through  the  thick  shock.  It  curled  up  delight- 
fully off  her  neck  and  brought  out  the  fine  con- 
tours of  her  head,  just  as  she  had  felt  sure  it 
would. 


73 

In  the  midst  of  this  exultation  Patricia  thought 
of  her  father.  Her  hair  had  always  been  his 
pride.  She  wore  it  flying  because  he  wished  it 
until  she  was  nearly  sixteen.  And  now — regret 
gnawed  at  her  heart;  but  regrets  in  the  face  of 
facts  are  useless.  Besides,  it  was  more  modern 
to  have  short  hair,  more  stylish,  sanitary,  and 
infinitely  less  trouble.  She  told  them  to  wrap  it 
up,  and  after  a  delicious  orgy  of  shopping  she 
sallied  home  with  her  hair  in  a  neat  little  package 
under  her  arm. 

Patricia  had  just  taken  off  her  hat  and  turned 
from  the  dresser  when  she  heard  a  shout  from 
Stan : 

"Great  God!" 

He  stood  in  the  doorway,  expressions  flitting 
across  his  face  at  a  terrific  tempo.  She  recog- 
nized a  masculine  something  oddly  familiar  that 
charged  the  whole  room.  She  waited.  Then  the 
air  cleared  as  unexpectedly  as  an  April  sky.  Stan 
came  over  and  kissed  her. 

"Where  is  it?"  he  asked  quietly.  "Oh,  my 
dear,  I  wish  you  hadn't!  I  wish  you  hadn't  had 
to!" 

Pat  fought  her  feelings,  tossed  her  head  and 
ran  her  fingers  carelessly  through  the  "bone  of 
contention." 

"Here,"  she  said,  and  showed  the  box  to  her 


74  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

disapproving  husband,  then  she  melted  into  tears. 

"Oh !  Stan,"  she  wailed.  "I'm  sorry.  Father 
loved  it  so,  and  now — you!"  Her  voice  trailed 
off  forlornly  and  ended  in  half-uttered  gurgles 
under  his  kisses. 

Like  a  wise  man  he  let  her  cry  for  a  bit,  then 
drew  from  her  comfortingly  the  confession  of  a 
deeper  worry  than  appeared.  This  had  been 
troubling  Patsy  ever  since  their  plunge  down  the 
trail  together,  although  she  had  hardly  admitted 
it  to  herself  until  now.  Perhaps  her  father  did 
not  love  her!  She  recalled  something  her 
mother  had  told  her  one  day  when  she  was  about 
fifteen,  that,  although  parents  go  on  loving  their 
children  with  that  first  instinctive  love  they  be- 
stow upon  them  in  babyhood,  there  comes  a  time, 
when  children  are  beginning  to  be  individuals 
when,  if  they  want  the  friendship  of  their  parents, 
they  must  earn  it!  Earn  it!  She  hadn't  earned 
it,  and  perhaps  her  father  had  ceased  to  love 
her! 

Stan  laughed  at  this,  reasoned,  and  urged  the 
disconsolate  bride  to  write  to  her  father;  but  that 
she  refused  to  do.  He  was  older  and  he  ought 
to  reach  out  to  her  first. 

"I'll  compromise  by  writing  to  mother,  but  I 
do  wish  .  .  .  how  I  wish  .  ."  she  sobbed. 


PATRICIA  CUTS  OFF  HER  HAIR      75 

"Anyway  you  love  me  just  as  well  without  my 
hair — don't  you?" 

"I  could  not  love  you  less,  or  better,  darling. 
You  own  every  fiber  of  my  heart  now — and  al- 
ways," he  assured  her. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THEIR   FIRST   QUARREL 

AT  the  end  of  a  blissful  fortnight  the  young 
lovers  moved  over  to  Catalina  Island  for  the  pro- 
duction of  "The  Magic  Isle,"  a  serial  in  many 
episodes,  with  Stanley  Matthews  as  the  hero,  and 
day  after  day  Patricia  watched  the  Company's 
yacht  Sinbad  lift  anchor  from  a  point  in  front  of 
the  hotel  and  sweep  out  of  the  blue  bay  of  Avalon, 
with  sun-lit,  exultant  sails.  There  were  pictures 
of  bandits  and  Indians  to  be  taken  on  the  other 
side  of  the  island,  and  sometimes  the  bride  ac- 
companied this  strange  aggregation  of  movie-folk, 
daubed  up  like  futuristic  nightmares,  and  watched 
them  go  through  their  lurid  adventures.  But 
they  soon  got  on  her  nerves.  She  found  them 
disappointing  under  the  pitiless  revelations  of  a 
California  sun.  How  utterly  different  Stanley 
was  from  the  average  professional!  This  puz- 
zled her,  and  Stan  was  evasive  on  the  subject, 
only  remarking  that  later  he  had  a  surprise  for 

76 


THEIR  FIRST  QUARREL  77 

her.  A  surprise  .  .  .  now  what  could  this  be? 
Was  he,  too,  thinking  of  New  York? 

These  should  have  been  radiantly  happy  weeks 
for  the  bride,  since  Stan  was  a  lover  that  any  girl 
might  be  proud  of;  she  recognized  his  generous 
devotion  and  enjoyed  the  good  times  they  had 
together — picnicking  on  the  rocks,  fishing  in  some 
remote  cove,  riding  over  the  hills.  What  a  pic- 
ture Stan  made,  bronzed  and  competent,  lifting 
and  lowering  the  glistening  oars,  pausing  to  light 
his  beloved  briar  pipe.  How  his  laugh  rang  out 
over  the  waters ! 

"And  yet  I  am  restless,  dissatisfied,"  she  con- 
fessed to  her  diary,  "reaching  out  to  life  as  I  want 
it  to  be,  not  as  it  is.  Surely  this  is  not  love.  It 
is  not  the  love  I  have  dreamed  of ;  if  I  really  loved 
Stan  I  would  be  content  to  stay  here  with  him  in- 
definitely. By  that  test  I  certainly  do  not  love 
him,  for  if  I  were  chained  to  this  island,  I  should 
hate  its  sparkling  beauty!" 

Patricia  was  resolved  in  her  own  mind  that 
Stan  should  not  sign  up  for  another  Western  en- 
gagement, but  must  arrange  for  a  transfer  to  the 
East  as  soon  as  "The  Magic  Isle"  was  finished. 
He  could  accomplish  this,  if  he  wished,  and  she 
had  assumed  that  she  could  easily  influence  him 
to  this  decision;  but  latterly  she  had  discovered  a 
certain  quiet  relentlessness  about  her  husband 


78  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

that  was  beginning  to  disturb  her.  "Stan  seems 
to  be  yielding  to  me,"  she  wrote,  "but  later  I  find 
that  only  apparently  did  I  have  my  wish;  at  bed 
rock  his  own  will  has  been  asserted.  He  reminds 
me  of  father's  exasperating  quotation:  Dulciter 
in  modo,  fortiter  in  re!" 

So  she  temporized,  carefully  planning  the  grand 
coup  that  was  to  lead  them  back  to  New  York — 
and  the  heart  of  things. 

At  last,  however,  she  decided  to  speak,  and 
one  night  in  early  June  got  into  her  most  charm- 
ing gown,  and  waited  for  Stan  in  the  rose-covered 
arbor  near  the  water. 

The  faint  blue  twilight  gathered  in  the  little 
cove,  bringing  the  hush  and  wistfulness  of  the 
hour.  The  monotonous  wash  of  the  pebbles  on 
the  rocky  shore,  the  insistent  song  of  the  frogs 
and  crickets,  the  faint,  ghostlike  sails  on  the  dis- 
tant horizon — all  fitted  in  with  her  mood.  But 
Stan  came  home  tired,  dirty  and  wet,  after  a  day's 
adventuring  with  diving  stunts  and  a  wreck,  and 
she  saw  that  this  was  not  her  moment.  These 
movie  exploits  looked  easy  enough  from  a  com- 
fortable seat  in  the  theater,  but  they  were  strenu- 
ous and  exhausting,  and  often  she  had  seen  the 
poor  boy  drag  himself  into  the  hotel  wearier  than 
any  day  laborer  and  fall  asleep  before  dinner, 
like  a  worn-out  child. 


THEIR  FIRST  QUARREL  79 

It  was  Stanley  himself  who  anticipated  her  the 
next  morning  by  abruptly  unfolding  his  surprise. 
They  had  climbed  high  above  the  village  by  the 
little  winding  path  cut  in  the  hillside,  and  paused 
to  look  down  over  the  bay  that  glittered  and 
danced  in  the  delicious  sunshine.  Suddenly,  with 
the  musical  whirr  of  many  wings,  a  flock  of  blue- 
birds darted  past,  sweeping,  with  lovely  dippings 
and  risings,  into  the  canon  back  of  the  hotel. 

"Look!"  cried  Pat,  as  the  sun  glinted  on  their 
wings. 

"The  hills  are  full  of  them,"  Stan  observed 
contentedly.  "If  they  stand  for  happiness,  we'll 
have  an  ocean  of  it."  Then  with  eyes  lighting  up 
clear  and  sharp,  he  said:  "No  more  'movies' 
for  me,  sweetheart,  I'm  through.  I'm  going  back 
to  my  own  work.  I've  had  three  years  of  serials. 
I've  earned  a  lot,  learned  a  lot,  and  I  quit  with 
joy,  all  debts  canceled." 

Patricia  waited,  her  brain  whirling  while  he 
ran  on,  gripping  her  arm  in  his  enthusiasm  until 
it  hurt.  "We're  going  to  Montecito,  just  out  of 
Santa  Barbara — up  among  the  mountains.  I 
have  a  bungalow  with  an  enchanting  garden  and 
a  view  of  the  sea.  There  I  can  write  in  peace." 

She  stared  at  him,  as  if  she  had  never  seen  this 
man  before.  His  well-cut  brown  gabardine  suit 
with  its  patch  pockets,  and  his  soft  brown  linen 


80  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

shirt  made  him  look  unusually  youthful.  Every- 
thing about  him  spoke  of  life,  almost  brutally  com- 
pelling. There  was  vigor  to  his  hair,  sunburned 
from  days  in  the  open,  vigor  in  his  deeply- 
browned  skin,  in  his  powerful  movements.  She 
drew  away  from  him  and  straightened  up,  press- 
ing her  lips  together. 

"You're  going  to  write — what?" 

"Essays,  novels,  serious  articles — all  the  things 
I've  yearned  to  do  for  years  and  couldn't  be- 
cause of  obligations.  You  see,"  his  face  grew 
sober  and  incredibly  tender,  "my  father  was  no 
kind  of  a  business-man.  When  he  died  he  left 
his  affairs  in  a  mess.  There  was  a  big  bunch  of 
notes  unpaid  and — it  was  up  to  me  to  straighten 
'em  out,  see?" 

"I — I  see,"  Patsy  stammered. 

"The  movie  road  was  the  only  way  I  could 
travel  that  led  to  money — big  money — so  I  took 
that  road.  But  I'm  caught  up  now,  to-day  I'm 
a  free  man,  with  enough  to  carry  us  along — sim- 
ply." He  stretched  his  arms  wide,  threw  out  his 
chest  and  took  a  long  breath.  Then  he  dug  into 
one  deep  pocket  and  brought  out  the  inevitable 
pipe.  She  watched  his  strong,  intelligent  fingers 
fill  the  bowl.  He  lighted  the  pungent  tobacco  and 
drew  contentedly  upon  the  amber  stem. 


Patricia  trying  to  make  up  her  mind  to  say  she  is  sorry 


THEIR  FIRST  QUARREL  81 

"This  is  your  surprise?"  Her  voice  was  flat, 
dun-colored. 

"Why,  yes!  I  thought  you  hated  my  being  a 
'movie-star,'  not  that  you  said  it,  darling,  but  I 
thought  .  .  ." 

The  tide  of  bitterness  rose  higher  as  she  saw 
the  dream-world  she  had  built  up  day  by  day  van- 
ishing like  smoke.  She  felt  ready  to  strike,  to 
break,  to  hurt  intolerably. 

"And  just  what  is  my  role  to  be?"  she  inter- 
rupted in  a  hard,  unnatural  voice. 

He  turned  and  regarded  his  young  wife  incred- 
ulously, then  burst  into  a  good-natured  laugh  that 
kindled  her  to  fury.  She  struck  out  to  free  her- 
self from  his  confident  arms.  To  her  terror,  the 
odor  of  his  breath  and  the  smoke-sweet  fragrance 
of  his  coat  caught  at  her  senses.  A  faint  shiver 
that  numbs  the  will  ran  over  her. 

"But— I— I,"  she  faltered,  "I  thought  you'd 
take  me  back  to  New  York.  I  hoped  you'd  get 
an  Eastern  transfer.  That's  one  reason  why — 
er— " 

"What?"  he  demanded,  his  eyes  insistent. 

"That's  one  reason  I  married  you,"  she  blurted 
out  defiantly. 

"I  guess  you'll  have  to  make  the  best  of  it — 
now." 


82  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

"Not  necessarily,"  she  snapped.  "Come — 
let's  go  back  to  the  hotel." 

II 

That  night  Patricia  wrote  in  her  diary:  "I 
swam  in  the  sea  this  afternoon,  thinking  this  might 
calm  me,  swam  on  my  back,  and  watched  the 
faintly  pink  clouds  drifting  in  the  sky,  the  gulls 
circling  low.  But  there  was  no  calm.  I  cannot 
see  things  Stan's  way." 

And  the  next  night  she  wrote:  "In  spite  of 
my  restlessness  there  is  an  insidious  charm  about 
this  island  that  wins  one  gradually,  like  certain 
subtle  and  costly  perfumes.  Little  by  little  I 
yield  myself  to  its  beauty,  to  its  blue  waters,  swirl- 
ing against  the  jagged  black  rocks  of  the  shore 
line.  I  heard  a  story,  or  did  I  dream  it?  that 
this  is  a  place  of  enchantment  where  one  discov- 
ers one's  real  self,  which,  alas!  one  seldom  has 
even  a  bowing  acquaintance  with.  This  true  self 
comes  out  from  the  heart  of  these  rose-colored 
hills,  comes  and  dwells  with  one." 

PATRICIA 

(Looking  up  from  her  writing}  Hello! 
Woozy!  I  suppose  you  think  you're  my  real  self. 


THEIR  FIRST  QUARREL  83 

Well,  you're  not.     You're  a  cheeky  little  sneak. 

WOOZY 

Never  mind  that.  I  want  to  know  what  you're 
going  to  do  with  this  nice  man  you've  married. 

PATRICIA 
Ah!     You  approve  of  him? 

WOOZY 

He's  much  too  good  for  you.  Why  don't  you 
stop  this  foolish  intriguing  to  get  back  to  New 
York  and  settle  down  to  real  happiness? 

PATRICIA 
I  can't  be  happy  away  from  New  York. 

WOOZY 

Silly!  You've  got  a  splendid,  red-blooded 
husband  who  worships  you.  He'll  give  you 
everything  you  want. 

PATRICIA 

(Fexed)  He  can't,  if  he  leaves  the  movies. 
Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  be  a  meek  little  house- 
wife? (Dreamily)  Perhaps  if  I  loved  him  in 
the  ideal  way — 

WOOZY 
Patsy!     How  can  you  say  such  a  thing? 

PATRICIA 

A  woman  doesn't  necessarily  love  a  man  in 
the  ideal  way  just  because  she's  married  to  him. 

WOOZY 
You  do  love  him. 


84  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

PATRICIA 

(Judicial  tone)  Perhaps.  But  mark  this, 
Woozy,  if  trouble  comes,  it  won't  be  my  fault. 
It  will  be  the  fault  of  these  two  men  with  their 
dominating  ideas. 

WOOZY 
Two  men? 

PATRICIA 

Yes,  father  and  Stan.  They  swept  me  off  my 
feet.  You  know  they  did.  Why  should  men 
always  be  asserting  their  wills  over  women?  You 
must  do  this !  You  mustn't  do  that !  I  will  kiss 
you !  I  will  marry  you !  How  is  a  girl  going  to 
know  when  she  really  loves? 
WOOZY 

But  you  do  love  him,  Pat.  You  can't  help  lov- 
ing him.  He's  wonderful.  And  you'll  love  him 
more  and  more,  if  you'll  only  stop  analyzing 
everything  and — writing  in  that  conceited  journal. 
(Pleading)  Go  to  Stan  and  tell  him  you  under- 
stand why  he  wants  to  quit  the  movies. 

PATRICIA 

I  don't.  I  think  it's  very  unfair  of  him.  He's 
making  two  thousand  dollars  a  week.  Think 
what  that  means. 

WOOZY 
You  ought  to  be  proud  that  he  aspires  to  some- 


THEIR  FIRST  QUARREL  85 

thing  better  than  bloodthirsty  serials.     They're 
not  worthy  of  his  talents. 

PATRICIA 

Well,  I'm  not  proud  of  him,  and  if  he  tries  to 
put  this  over  on  me,  he'll  be  sorry.  Now  shut 
up! 

WOOZY 

No.     There's  something  else.     Why  don't  you 
write  to  mother  and  father? 
PATRICIA 

Don't  bother  me.  I'm  going  to  write  to 
them — when  I'm  not  so  worried. 

WOOZY 
You  mean  when  you're  not  so  selfish. 

Ill 

Patricia,  like  most  girls  of  her  age  and  bringing 
up,  was  selfish.  It  is  hard  to  place  the  responsi- 
bility for  this  condition,  whether  upon  parents  for 
spoiling  their  daughters  by  ill-judged  indulgence, 
or  upon  society  for  practically  compelling  the 
parents  to  act  thus  (through  force  of  example), 
or  upon  the  growing  spirit  of  irreligion  that  has 
hardened  and  disillusioned  the  younger  genera- 
tion. When  Patricia  married  Stanley  she  thought 
she  was  solving  all  her  difficulties.  She  thought 


86  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

that  all  harassing  and  belittling  money  worries 
were  over,  and  that  life  henceforth  would  become 
free  and  gracious.  Alas!  Now  she  was  dis- 
covering that  she  had  only  stumbled  into  new 
worries  and  different  harassments.  In  some  ways 
Stanley  Matthews,  for  all  his  devotion,  was  less 
malleable  than  her  father,  as  on  this  important 
evening  when  he  enraged  her  by  saying:  "Your 
father  treated  you  like  a  child,  Pat,  and  you  acted 
like  one.  He  humored  you,  yielded  to  you  when 
he  ought  to  have  spanked  you.  But  to  me  you're 
a  responsible  grown  person,  and  I  expect  you  to 
act  like  one." 

"And  help  you  economize,  I  suppose?" 

"Certainly." 

"And  do  some  of  the  housework?" 

"Why  not?" 

They  quarreled  then — fiercely,  separating  for 
the  night  without  a  word  of  reconciliation.  Stan 
took  his  things  into  an  adjoining  room,  slamming 
the  door,  and  a  few  minutes  later  Pat  heard  him 
booming  out  a  song  that  rose  above  the  noisy 
rush  of  his  shower. 

"And  there's  not  a  girl  like  Sa-a-lly,"  he  pro- 
claimed over  and  over  again.  If  she  hadn't  felt 
sure  it  was  childish  bravado  on  his  part,  this 
would  have  been  insufferable. 

Her  heart  felt  sore  and  beaten,  her  head  ached. 


THEIR  FIRST  QUARREL  87 

She  went  round  and  round  in  mental  circles. 
What  was  she  to  do?  A  sudden  vision  of  home 
came  to  her.  If  only  she  could  go  home!  She 
felt  her  cheeks  flame.  Of  course  she  could  not 
go  home. 

With  a  wry  smile  Patsy  recalled  her  father's 
story  of  her  four-year-old  days.  He  had  found 
her  on  the  top  steps  that  led  down  into  the 
kitchen,  playing  with  some  dishes  that  the  cook 
had  given  her  to  keep  her  quiet.  She  had  ranged 
them  neatly  along  the  top  step. 

"So  you  have  some  dishes?"  he  said,  by  way  of 
conversation. 

"They're  not  mine,"  she  answered  gravely, 
"they're  God's  dishes."  Then,  before  the  poor 
father  had  recovered,  she  informed  him:  "I  am 
God.  This  is  Heaven.  Now,"  she  drew  her- 
self up  with  an  air  of  conquest  and  came  slowly 
down  the  steps  as  if  she  were  trailing  long  robes, 
"now,  God  is  coming  down  out  of  Heaven." 

That  was  the  trouble  with  her.  All  her  life 
she  had  been  playing  God.  And  now  Life  had 
the  laugh  on  her.  It  had  checkmated  her. 

Patricia  bathed  her  eyes,  looked  at  herself  in 
the  mirror  and  decided  that  part  of  her  failure  to 
manage  Stanley  was  due  to  the  fact  that  her  short 
hair  did  not  go  well  with  this  negligee.  How 
many,  many  times  she  had  wished  her  hair  back 


88  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

on  again!  No  action  of  her  life  had  ever  con- 
vinced her  so  completely  of  the  folly  of  obeying 
an  impulse  without  a  long-distance  view  of  the 
future.  Her  father  was  right ! 

She  curled  up  in  the  window-seat,  hugging  her 
knees,  gazed  morosely  out  over  the  star-lit  sea, 
lit  a  cigarette  and  thought. 

Was  she  really  an  unintelligent  little  beast? 
Her  blazing  honesty  was  destructive.  It  was 
crude,  untutored.  If  she  had  only  used  tact, 
tripped  along  lightly  in  their  talk,  she  might  have 
met  Stan's  objections  and  brought  him  to  terms. 
It  was  her  miserable  pride.  In  her  heart  she  was 
sorry  for  the  nasty,  sharp  things  she  had  said, 
but  ... 

No  one  who  has  not  a  stubborn,  willful  nature 
can  know  the  throes  of  agony  a  less  favored  per- 
son will  suffer  before  expressing  regret  for  a 
wrong  or  an  unkind  action.  Patsy  remembered 
once  when  she  was  a  child  being  particularly  hate- 
ful to  her  mother,  who  did  not  scold  or  punish  her, 
but  only  turned  reproachful  eyes  upon  her  as  she 
tucked  her  into  bed,  and  said:  "I'm  very  much 
disappointed  in  you,  Patricia.  I  would  never 
have  believed  that  you  could  be  so  naughty." 

What  a  wave  of  remorse  had  swept  over  her! 
Her  heart  had  swelled  to  enormous  proportions. 


"Now,  God  is  coming  down  out  of  Heaven" 


THEIR  FIRST  QUARREL  89 

It  seemed  to  fill  her  whole  body.  She  wanted  to 
burst  into  sobs  of  penitence;  but,  instead,  she 
only  pulled  the  bed  clothes  sulkily  over  her  head 
as  her  mother  turned  away  with  a  sigh  and  closed 
the  door.  The  rest  of  the  night,  up  to  twelve 
o'clock,  the  child  had  spent  in  the  long  hall  that 
separated  her  bedroom  from  her  mother's.  She 
would  get  out  of  her  bed,  repentant,  and  patter 
down  the  passageway  only  to  hesitate  outside  the 
door,  standing  first  on  one  cold  bare  foot,  then  on 
the  other.  Finally,  after  a  dozen  such  fruitless 
trips,  the  door  opened  and  her  mother  came  out, 
whereupon  the  child  leaped  into  her  arms.  "I — 
I'm  sorry,  but  I — I  can't  say  it!"  she  sobbed. 

Patricia  got  up  abruptly,  stumbled  over  one  of 
her  husband's  great  mountain  boots  and  tip-toed 
to  the  door  that  separated  their  two  rooms.  This 
was  the  first  night  Stan  had  been  away  from  her. 
Her  imagination  flew  in  to  him.  She  put  her  ear 
to  the  keyhole.  Not  a  sound !  Probably  he  was 
as  wretched  as  she  was,  as  sorry,  he  certainly  had 
said  horrid,  domineering  things  .  .  . 

Her  curiosity  got  the  better  of  her,  and,  by 
the  merest  crack,  she  opened  the  door.  No 
sound!  She  opened  it  wide.  The  little  rose- 
shaded  light  by  his  bed  was  still  burning;  and 
now,  deep  and  regular,  she  caueht  his  breathing. 


90  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

She  walked  into  the  center  of  the  room  and — 
there,  stretched  diagonally  across  the  big  bed,  lay 
Stan — sound  asleep! 

Patsy  hovered  between  wrath  and  an  uncon- 
trollable desire  to  laugh.  How  like  a  manl 
Money  matters  could  keep  him  tossing  all  night, 
but  a  quarrel  with  his  wife,  his  safely  married 
wife  .  .  . 

Rage  tore  loose  in  her  again.  She  stormed 
back  to  her  room,  undressed,  turned  off  the  lights, 
and  went  to  bed.  Not  to  sleep,  however,  for  she 
was  in  a  dilemma.  If  Stan  insisted  upon  going 
into  retirement  on  a  bread  and  butter  basis  and 
she  went  with  him,  how  delighted  her  father 
would  be.  Nothing  that  he  could  have  devised 
could  so  exactly  have  suited  his  idea.  The  quiet, 
the  discipline,  the  work,  both  manual  and  mental. 
Admirable !  It  would  be  the  making  of  Patricia. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  she  were  to  break  with 
Stan  (How  could  she  anyway?  She  hadn't  a 
cent  of  her  own)  she  would  again  prove  that  her 
father  was  right.  A  poor  husband  indeed  she 
must  have  selected  to  leave  him  so  soon.  Her 
cheeks  burned.  Her  pride  was  abashed.  What 
could  she  do? 

Thus  Patricia  tossed  feverishly,  perplexed  and 
humiliated.  Why  should  men  always  rule  and 
dominate  women?  And  decide  that  women  must 


THEIR  FIRST  QUARREL  91 

know  how  to  do  domestic  work,  or  show  an  inter- 
est in  it?  Every  man  has  some  such  old-fashioned 
ideal  of  a  womanly  woman  hidden  away  in  a  cor- 
ner of  his  brain — willed  to  him  through  genera- 
tions. Womanly!  How  that  word  irritated 
her! 

Patsy  reverted  to  the  conclusion  that  all  her 
troubles  had  come  from  being  too  honest.  Hon- 
esty is  a  good  principle  for  a  man,  but  for  a 
woman.  Never !  Not  if  she  wanted  to  get  along 
with  the  opposite  sex.  (And  she  can't  get  along 
without  them!)  Men  like  to  be  lied  to  coyly 
and  adroitly.  It  makes  them  feel  that  they  are 
playing  a  clever  game,  it  flatters  their  vanity. 
Men  lap  up  vanity  as  a  kitten  does  milk! 

Meanwhile  Stan  was  breathing  serenely  in  the 
adjoining  room,  and  would  waken  fresh  and  dan- 
gerously alert  in  the  morning.  She  must  decide 
on  something  or  be  placed  at  a  hopeless  disadvan- 
tage. There  was  evidently  only  one  thing  to  do 
— make  peace  with  Stan,  apparently  yield  to  his 
wishes,  and  then,  later  on,  bend  all  her  energies 
toward  changing  him. 

Having  decided  this  the  young  wife  got  up, 
groped  her  way  to  the  door  and  a  moment  later 
was  back  at  Stan's  bedside.  His  face  was  bur- 
rowed comically  into  the  pillow,  only  one  eye 
being  visible,  and  his  arms  were  thrown  up  and 


92  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

rounded  about  it.  He  looked  like  such  a  young- 
ster! 

Pat  leaned  over  and  ran  her  finger  along  the 
light  down  on  her  husband's  one  visible  ear.  He 
stirred.  How  splendid  and  strong-looking  he 
wasl  .  .  .  But  he  might  keep  on  a  little  longer 
in  the  movies.  She  wanted  at  least  one  grand 
splurge  into  the  gay  life.  This  was  such  an  anti- 
climax .  .  . 

She  looked  down  at  him,  then  impulsively 
stooped  to  kiss  him.  Her  hair  swept  his  fore- 
head and  he  brushed  it  away  impatiently.  It 
was  too  funny  and  she  burst  out  laughing  where- 
upon he  opened  that  single  eye  and  blinked 
solemnly  at  her. 

"Hello!"  he  groped  drowsily,  "that  you,  Pat?" 

She  hesitated  only  a  second,  then  turned  off  the 
light,  crept  in  with  him  .  .  .  and  went  to  sleep 
in  his  arms. 


IV 


That  same  night  another  scene  .  .  . 

At  Durand's  restaurant  in  Los  Angeles  (there 
is  no  better  food  to  be  had  in  Paris)  where  the 
father  and  mother  had  dined,  and  talked  for  the 
hundredth  time  about  Patricia  and  renunciation — 
how  the  time  inevitably  comes  when  parents  must 


THEIR  FIRST  QUARREL  93 

readjust  themselves,  often  with  anguish,  to  the 
severing  of  bonds  of  tenderness  that  have  grown 
strong  through  years ! 

Never  would  the  mother  admit  that  Patsy  had 
been  unloving;  on  the  contrary  she  defended  the 
child  for  holding  to  her  own  viewpoint  and  stand- 
ing out  for  her  liberty,  even  against  her  parents. 
Her  faith  was  unwavering  that,  through  all  this 
tangle  of  apparent  waywardness  and  contrariness, 
Patricia  had  been  true  to  herself  and  to  her 
destiny. 

"Then  you  think  everything  is  coming  out  all 
right?  You  really  think  that?" 

Helen's  seriousness  deepened,  she  was  silent  for 
a  moment,  her  eyes  shadowed  by  a  grave  thought- 
fulness  as  if  she  were  communing  with  her  soul; 
then  she  said  simply:  "I  believe  in  the  inheri- 
tance we  have  given  our  child  ...  I  have  faith 
in  the  prayers  I've  said  ...  I  know  she  has 
chosen  a  man  worthy  of  her  love." 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  WHICH  STANLEY  CALLS  ON  PATRICIA'S  FATHER 

A  FEW  days  later  while  Newton  Lydig  was  at 
work  in  the  Pasadena  home  (he  had  taken  Pa- 
tricia's little  apartment  as  his  office  and  many  of 
her  books  and  pictures  were  still  where  she  had 
left  them)  the  telephone  rang  and  the  novelist  was 
informed  that  a  Mr.  Creighton  wished  to  see  him. 
He  could  not  place  this  person  at  first,  but  pres- 
ently remembered  a  novel  of  unusual  promise, 
Brute  and  Angel  by  Arthur  S.  Creighton,  a 
young  author  who  had  sent  his  first  book  to  Lydig 
a  couple  of  years  ago  in  New  York  in  the  hope 
that  he  would  find  in  it  something  worthy  of  com- 
mendation, which  the  veteran  writer  did.  It  was 
Arthur  S.  Creighton  who  was  calling  now,  and 
he  was  asked  to  come  up. 

As  soon  as  Lydig  caught  sight  of  this  young 
fellow  he  liked  him.  A  face  of  rugged  homeli- 
ness, but  full  of  power  and  individuality.  Trust- 
worthy, but  vaguely  formidable — a  man  to  drive 
ahead  relentlessly  after  his  own  ambition  and  pur- 

94 


STANLEY  CALLS  95 

poses,  yet  kindly  in  the  main.  A  fine  physical 
specimen — tanned  like  a  sailor,  strong  as  a  moun- 
taineer. He  had  thick  reddish  hair. 

"Well,"  smiled  the  older  man,  "literary  work 
doesn't  seem  to  have  hurt  you." 

Creighton  answered  with  embarrassment  and, 
as  they  talked,  Lydig  noticed  in  his  caller  a  vague 
uneasiness  as  if  he  had  something  on  his  mind 
that  he  wanted  to  express,  but  could  not.  Several 
times  his  eyes  lingered  on  Patricia's  picture  there 
on  the  desk  beside  a  vase  of  California  poppies. 

At  a  reference  to  his  novel  the  young  man  said 
that  Lydig's  words  of  praise  had  lifted  him  up  to 
the  clouds,  had  made  him  feel  like  poor  Walt 
Whitman  when  he  got  that  letter  from  Emerson. 

"I  hope  the  book  sold  well?" 

"No,  it  didn't,"  the  visitor  shook  back  his  hair 
with  a  characteristic  gesture.  "But  never  mind, 
I'll  get  square  later  on.  What  troubles  me  is — 
er— " 

Then  awkwardly  he  came  to  the  reason  for  his 
call  which  was  in  connection  with  some  very  lucra- 
tive work  in  the  movies  that  he  had  been  doing 
for  the  past  two  years.  His  problem  was  one 
that  disturbs  all  writing  men  these  days — the  mo- 
tion picture  lure.  The  question  was  should  he 
go  on  with  this  movie  work  in  spite  of  its  inar- 
tistic, not  to  say  trashy  character,  and  renew 


96  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

an  extraordinarily  advantageous  contract — two 
thousand  dollars  a  week! — or  should  he  go  back 
to  the  serious  writing  that  he  aspired  to  do — and 
a  modest  income?  Perhaps  Lydig  had  a  subcon- 
scious intuition  that  they  were  approaching  a  dra- 
matic situation.  At  any  rate  he  gave  careful  at- 
tention to  the  talk  that  followed. 

"How  old  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"Twenty-seven." 

The  questioner  felt  a  pang  of  envy  as  he  re- 
membered what  he  was  at  twenty-seven — a 
talented,  rather  ill-regulated  newspaper  man  in 
Paris,  full  of  vague  projects  for  the  future — 
books  to  be  written,  plays  to  be  written — some 
day!  But  in  the  main  intensely  or  indolently  oc- 
cupied with  day-by-day  pleasures  and  excitements. 
Would  he  at  twenty-seven  have  seriously  con- 
sidered giving  up  two  thousand  dollars  a  week  or 
two  hundred  dollars  a  week  (as  a  matter  of  fact 
he  had  never  earned  more  than  one  hundred  dol- 
lars a  week  in  Paris!)  for  the  sake  of  some  fine 
piece  of  work  that  he  hoped  to  accomplish? 
Alas,  no! 

Lydig  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room. 

"With  all  this  money  that  you've  been  making, 
you  must  have  saved  something?"  he  remarked. 

"I've  saved  forty  thousand  dollars.  That's 
the  best  I  could  do.  I  had  debts  to  pay — my 


STANLEY  CALLS  97 

father's  debts — a  matter  of  honor.  That's  why 
I  took  up  movie  work." 

There  was  a  look  in  his  eyes  that  gave  the  older 
man  a  queer  sense  of  responsibility.  After  all 
Arthur  S.  Creighton  was  nothing  to  him.  Why 
should  he  take  his  problems  to  heart?  But  he 
did,  and  he  listened  with  particular  interest  for 
the  answer  to  another  question  that  he  shot  forth 
(knowing  its  importance),  a  question  that  seemed 
to  throw  Creighton  into  confusion,  for  he  colored 
and  fidgeted  as  Lydig  asked: 

"Are  you  married?" 

"Yes,  I  am.  That's  the  point.  If  I  weren't 
married  I  shouldn't  hesitate  a  moment.  I'd  give 
up  the  movie  game  and  write  books ;  but  .  .  ." 

"You  mean  your  wife  wants  luxuries — money?" 

"Yes." 

Of  course  the  father  thought  of  Patricia  now, 
but  by  some  strange  obtuseness  he  never  once 
connected  her  with  his  visitor. 

"It  will  be  quite  a  come-down  for  your  wife, 
won't  it?" 

"Yes." 

"It  will  mean  simpler  living?" 

"Much  simpler." 

"Before  I  answer  your  question,  I'll  have  to 
talk  a  little.  Mr.  Creighton,"  he  proceeded, 
"I'm  not  exactly  a  fatalist,  I  admit  the  possibility 


98  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

of  a  man's  surpassing  himself,  as  it  were,  espe- 
cially a  young  man ;  but  it's  improbable.  For  the 
most  part  we  humans  strike  a  certain  gait  of  ac- 
complishment and  keep  to  that  gait.  We  can't 
do  any  better,  no  matter  how  much  we  would  like 
to.  Furthermore,  the  things  we  do  best  are 
usually  the  things  we  do  easily.  In  your  case  you 
see  yourself  writing  novels — big  novels,  don't 
you?" 

"Well— yes." 

"Of  course  you  do.  So  does  every  newspaper 
man,  every  magazine  writer.  He  imagines  him- 
self a  Charles  Dickens.  He  dreams  of  what  he 
would  do  if  he  only  dared  to  cut  loose  from  the 
drudgery  that  is  enslaving  him.  But  the  chances 
are  he  would  write  poor  novels.  Or  poor  plays. 
The  chances  are  that  newspaper  work  or  maga- 
zine work  is  the  most  suitable  field  for  his  talents, 
as  long  as  he  only  dreams  of  changing." 

Creighton  squinted  his  eyes  in  a  puzzled  frown. 
"You  mean — "  he  began,  but  the  other  cut  him 
short. 

"Wait!  We  are  all  dreamers.  I  dream  of 
writing  better  novels.  Every  year  I  promise  my- 
self not  to  let  my  work  be  handicapped  any  longer 
by  mercenary  considerations.  I'll  dig  out  the 
biggest  thing  in  me  and  write  that,  regardless  of 
popularity,  or  royalties  or  anything  else.  But  I 


STANLEY  CALLS  99 

don't  do  it.  I  keep  on  writing  the  same  old  safe 
stuff  that  has  brought  me  in  a  good  income  for 
years.  Most  novelists  are  like  that.  In  our 
hearts  we  think  we  could  do  better,  but  we  don't! 
And  it's  doubtful  if  we  could.  If  we  could,  we 
would,  we'd  be  compelled  to  by  the  creative  urge 
within  us." 

"You  think  I'd  better  stay  in  the  pictures?" 

"Unless  you're  sure  you  are  an  exception  to  the 
rule — yes.  You  may  be  an  exception,  there  are 
exceptions,  occasional  exceptions — in  every  line. 
Graham  Bell  breaks  away  from  school-teaching 
and  invents  the  telephone.  The  Wright  brothers 
kick  over  the  traces  of  some  hum-drum  calling  and 
show  the  world  how  to  fly.  Madame  Curie  dis- 
covers radium.  Walt  Whitman  writes  the 
'Leaves  of  Grass.'  It's  possible  but — are  you 
sure?  You've  written  one  novel  and  it  didn't  set 
any  rivers  on  fire,  did  it?  Besides — "  he  hesi- 
tated, not  wishing  to  hurt  the  young  man's  feel- 
ings. 

"Goon.     Please!" 

"If  you  really  had  in  you  the  makmg  of  a  great 
novelist — there's  no  use  adding  to  the  crop  of 
second-rate  or  third-rate  novels,  is  there? — you'd 
have  broken  loose  already.  You  wouldn't  be 
here  asking  my  advice.  You  would  have  decided 
your  literary  destiny  for  yourself.  Nothing  could 


ioo  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

have  kept  you  at  motion  picture  serials,  if  you  felt 
the  power  of  a  first-class  novelist  burning  within 
you." 

"You're  wrong,  sir,"  the  young  fellow  an- 
swered quietly.  "The  necessity  of  paying  a  debt 
of  honor  could  have  kept  me  at  it — until  the  debt 
was  paid." 

"Well,  yes,  I  see  that." 

"And  as  to  saying  that  the  average  man  does 
the  best  work  he's  capable  of  doing,  I  don't  be- 
lieve it.  The  average  man  doesn't  begin  to  do 
what  he  might  do.  Take  our  American  writers. 
Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  they  couldn't  make  a 
better  showing?  Of  course  they  could.  You 
admitted  it  just  now  when  you  spoke  of  your  own 
aspirations.  You  might  realize  them — all  you 
big  fellows  who  have  made  reputations  could 
realize  them,  if  you  didn't  care  so  damned  much 
about — "  He  checked  himself  at  the  beginning 
of  a  fiery  outburst. 

"About  what?" 

"Oh,  about  living  in  expensive  apartments,  and 
riding  around  in  limousines  and — I  suppose  you 
think  me  a  cheeky  young  cub  to  criticize  my  elders 
and  betters  like  this,  but — " 

"Go  on !     Let  us  have  it." 

"I  feel  sore  about  this,  Mr.  Lydig.  It  fills  me 
with  rage  to  think  what  a  measly  impression  our 


STANLEY  CALLS  101 

American  novelists  make  in  the  world.  Why 
must  we  always  be  kow-towing  to  English  novel- 
ists? Why  haven't  we  any  writers  over  here  as 
distinguished  as  Kipling  or  Barrie  or  H.  G.  Wells, 
or  even  that  sickening  mountebank,  Bernard 
Shaw?  It's  no  use  pretending  we  have,  for  we 
haven't.  Why  not?  I'll  tell  you  why — you  said 
it  yourself,  it's  because  we  play  safe  all  the  time. 
We  are  crazy  to  be  successful,  to  write  best  sellers, 
to  pile  up  royalties — money." 

"It's  the  spirit  of  the  age." 

"Well,  it's  a  rotten  spirit  that  has  never  made 
for  art.  I've  been  fed  up  on  it  in  the  movies. 
Reclame!  A  writer  ought  to  be  a  consecrated 
person,  living  to  express  great  ideas.  If  he  can't 
be  that  he  might  as  well  go  into  the  chewing-gum 
business.  But  what  do  we  see?  Look  at  our 
novelists!  Our  playwrights!  Where  do  they 
get  their  inspiration?  I'll  tell  you — from  the 
press-agent,  the  box  office.  Watch  'em  strutting 
about  at  banquets,  tea-parties,  women's  clubs  .  .  . 
shaking  hands  like  politicians  .  .  .  full  of  poses 
.  .  .  thinking  about  the  speech  they  are  going  to 
make  and  hoping  to  God  the  newspapers  will  print 
it — which  they  usually  don't.  Excuse  me,  sir." 

Lydig  laughed. 

"What  would  you  have  us  do?" 

"Do?"     Creighton     flashed    back     recklessly. 


102  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

"I'd  have  a  writer  search  into  his  heart  or  soul 
or  wherever  he  keeps  his  treasure  and  spit  it  out 
without  fussing  so  much  about  style.  Style  1 
Good  Lord!  A  man's  style  will  take  care  of  it- 
self, if  he  has  anything  to  say  that's  worth  saying. 
If  he  hasn't,  he'd  better  not  write.  What's  the 
use  of  being  so  damned  clever  and  subtle  when  the 
stuff  has  no  value?  Did  Lincoln  try  to  be  clever 
when  he  wrote  the  Gettysburg  Address?  Did  he 
worry  about  his  style?  He  did  not,  but  he  said 
something  that  will  be  remembered  after  all  the 
books  of  all  the  word-magicians  and  beauty-wor- 
shipers have  been  forgotten." 

"Don't  you  worship  beauty?" 

"For  its  own  sake?  No,  sir!  I  worship 
beauty  when  it  clothes  great  thoughts,  stirs  noble 
emotions  .  .  .  faith  .  .  .  courage;  not  a  vague, 
sensuous  beauty  like  an  opium  dream.  I  worship 
the  beauty  of  Victor  Hugo.  I'd  rather  have 
written  Les  Miserable*  than  anything  in  English 
literature  .  .  ." 

More  and  more,  as  Lydig  listened,  he  felt  him- 
self stirred,  captivated  by  the  courage  of  this 
young  barbarian. 

"The  trouble  with  American  writers,"  Creigh- 
ton  swept  on,  "is  that  they're  always  imitating 
this  man  or  that  man,  usually  some  infernal  Eng- 
lishman who  succeeded  because  he  imitated  no- 


STANLEY  CALLS  103 

body.  We  haven't  the  courage  to  be  ourselves, 
but  we  might  have  it.  Mark  Twain  had  it.  O. 
Henry  had  it.  So  did  that  corking  old  Walt 
Whitman.  And  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  I  say  if  an 
artist  can't  be  himself,  he  can't  be  anything." 

Patricia's  father  was  kindling  now  in  this  blaze 
of  enthusiasm.  He  forgot  his  own  objections,  he 
went  back  to  the  time  when  he  had  thrilled  under 
the  urge  of  these  very  same  feelings  and  aspira- 
tions, to  the  time  before  he  had  surrendered  to 
expediency  and  become  a  compromiser.  He  was 
suddenly  ashamed  of  himself  and  of  his  mediocre 
work. 

"I  hope  I  didn't  offend  you,"  he  apologized, 
"by  saying  that  if  you  had  the  making  of  a  nov- 
elist in  you,  you'd  have  left  the  movies  of  your 
own  accord.  That  was  rather  a  sweeping  asser- 
tion and — " 

"I  have  left  the  movies,"  Creighton  interrupted 
sharply.  "I  began  a  novel  several  weeks  ago. 
I  expect  to  go  ahead  with  it  and  finish  it,  un- 
less .  .  ." 

Lydig  interrupted  him :  "Don't  say  any  more 
You're  right,  my  boy.  I  agree  with  you.  For 
God's  sake  don't  commercialize  yourself.  Keep 
to  your  big  ambition,  even  if  it  means  sacrifice. 
Consecrate  yourself,  as  you  said  just  now,  to  the 
best  that's  in  you  and — " 


104  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

"Wait  I" 

"What'*  the  matter?  What  are  you  keeping 
back?" 

"My— my  wife." 

"If  your  wife  amounts  to  anything,  she'll  make 
the  fight  with  you — she'll  be  glad  to.  I  tell  you 
art  is  based  on  sacrifice.  She'll  understand  that, 
if  she  loves  you  .  .  .  and  if  she  doesn't,  if  she 
isn't  fine  enough  to  understand,  then  my  advice 
to  you  is — " 

Stanley  cut  the  speaker  short  with  a  swift  thrust 
of  his  hand. 

"Stop!"  he  cried.  "You  don't  understand,  I — 
I've  been  trying  to  tell  you,  but — I  couldn't.  My 
wife  is — she's  your  daughter — Patricia  1" 


CHAPTER  XI 

MAN    TO    MAN 

ONE  never  knows  in  advance  how  one  will  re- 
act to  a  startling  surprise — a  sudden  peril,  a  great 
joy.  (  >ncc  I  .vJi^  had  been  awakened  in  the  night 
by  a  burglar  and  all  he  did  was  to  sit  up  good 
naturcdly  and  stare  at  the  intruder,  calling  out 
"Hello!",  which  so  astonished  the  fellow  that  he 
dived  out  through  an  open  window  and  took  to  his 
heels.  Now  in  the  face  of  Creighton's  revelation, 
the  novelist  simply  said,  "I  see!" 

Naturally  he  was  inclined  to  blame  Stanley  for 
not  declaring  straight  out  who  he  was  when  he 
first  came  in,  instead  of  dissimulating;  but  when 
the  father  saw  how  disturbed  his  young  friend 
was,  how  regretful  for  the  false  position  he  had 
placed  them  both  in,  he  had  not  the  heart  to  press 
his  advantage.  Already  they  were  on  good  terms 
and  they  remained  so,  Lydig's  only  expressed 
grievance  against  his  son-in-law  being  the  elope- 
ment. \Vhv  had  he  not  come  frankly  to  the  par- 
ents and  asked  their  consent? 

105 


io6  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

"My  only  justification  is  that  I  loved  her,  and 
— was  afraid  of  losing  her,"  answered  the  young 
man  with  disarming  penitence.  "You  see  she  was 
wavering,  she  wasn't  sure  that  she  loved  me.  She 
isn't  yet." 

The  father's  face  clouded.  "Is  it  possible  you 
have  taken  the  responsibility  of  settling  my 
daughter's  future  without  being  sure  she  loves 
you?" 

"Well,  somebody  had  to  do  it — somebody  in 
her  own  generation.  Patricia  is  a  wonderful  girl, 
but  she's  like  a  thoroughbred  colt  that's  been  run- 
ning wild  and  will  hurt  herself — kick  everything 
to  pieces — unless  she's  trained." 

"Trained?" 

"That's  a  rough  word.  I  don't  mean  it  that 
way.  I  mean  that  I  can  help  her — against  her- 
self— better  than  anybody  else,  because  I — "  he 
bit  his  lips  nervously,  "I  care  so  much.  I'm 
ready  to  take  any  amount  of  trouble.  I'll  do 
whatever  is  necessary.  I'm  not  going  to  lose  her. 
That's  why  I've  put  this  money  thing  up  to  you, 
sir.  As  far  as  my  literary  reputation  goes,  I 
don't  give  a  hang,  that's  secondary  to  Patricia. 
She  comes  first.  I'll  stay  in  the  movies  all  my  life, 
if  it's  better  for  her.  But  I  don't  believe  it  is. 
I  believe  it's  better  for  her  to  come  down  to  earth, 
to  face  life,  to  bear  part  of  the  burden  that's  put 


MAN  TO  MAN  107 

upon  all  of  us.  On  the  other  hand  I  may  be  mis- 
taken. If  I  am,  I  want  you  to  tell  me.  That's 
why  I'm  here." 

Again  Lydig  was  tempted  to  become  acri- 
monious when  he  reflected  that  his  son-in-law  had 
led  him  to  commit  himself  in  regard  to  the  finan- 
cial question  before  revealing  his  identity.  That 
was  not  quite  fair.  On  the  other  hand  it  was  so 
evident  that  Stanley  meant  to  do  right — his  hon- 
est countenance  left  no  doubt  on  that  point — that 
the  father  put  a  good  face  on  the  matter  and, 
smiling,  held  out  his  hand. 

"There,  my  boy!  We  all  make  mistakes. 
The  main  point  is,"  he  added  with  a  searching 
look,  "I  feel  that  you  are  sincere,  Creighton,  I 
know  you  are." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

They  talked  for  an  hour,  man  to  man,  and 
Stanley  explained  as  well  as  he  could  Patsy's 
aloofness  from  her  parents,  admitting,  without  dis- 
loyalty to  her,  that  she  had  a  prideful  spirit. 

"She  is  angry  because  she  is  in  the  wrong,"  de- 
clared the  father.  "She  knows  she  ought  to  have 
come  to  see  her  mother  and  me.  By  the  way, 
does  she  know  you  have  come?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Ah!" 

"I  assure  you  it  grieves  her  not  to  come,  she 


io8  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

hates  to  be  unkind,  but  she  just  can't — yet. 
Especially—  '  his  face  brightened  with  a  mis- 
chievous gleam,  "when  she  isn't  quite  sure  whether 
this  wonderful,  soul-satisfying  liberty  thing,  that 
she's  been  so  crazy  about,  is  going  to  materialize 
in  the  way  she  thought.  I  tell  her  liberty  is  an 
eternal  illusion,  something  we  all  dream  of,  but 
never  get." 

"That's  true." 

"Pat  is  all  the  time  afraid  some  one  will  put 
something  over  on  her — it  used  to  be  you,  now  it's 
me.  You've  heard  her  talk,  sir." 

"Yes,"  dryly.  "I  thought  marriage  would 
change  all  that.  I  thought  love  would — " 

"Love!"  the  young  man  repeated.  "Pat's  got 
to  find  out  first  what  love  really  is." 

"Right,  my  boy.  Love  must  be  fed  by  un- 
selfishness. I've  seen  that  kind  of  love  for  twenty- 
three  years." 

"You  mean  Patricia's  mother?" 

"Yes." 

"I  know.  Pat  admits  the  beauty  of  her 
mother's  life,  she's  often  touched  by  it,  but  she 
figures  that  her  mother  wants  to  be  unselfish,  so 
why  shouldn't  she  be?  Whereas  Pat  wants  to  be 
selfish,  even  though  it  makes  her  unhappy.  This 
younger  generation  has  no  use  for  duty." 

As  Newton  Lydig  listened,   he  recovered  his 


MAN  TO  MAN  109 

equanimity,  taking  note  of  the  fact  that  here  was 
a  case  where  the  younger  generation  might  find 
their  own  progressive  medicine  rather  bitter. 
How  would  young  Mr.  John  F.  Carter,  Jr.,  bril- 
liant crusader  against  blundering  oldsters  of  the 
Grundy  tribe  who  have  spoiled  the  world  and  had 
now  better  shut  up  and  "Go  into  their  respective 
backyards  and  dig  for  worms,  great  big  pink 
ones — "  how  would  he  enjoy  it,  if  he  should  find 
himself  mated  to  one  of  these  wild  young  heroines 
whom  he  champions  so  amusingly  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly? 

They  returned  to  the  question  of  expenses  and 
discussed  the  necessity  that  Patricia  would  be 
under  of  coming  down  to  a  more  reasonable  way 
of  living,  if  Stanley  decided  to  give  up  his  large 
income.  Pat  would  have  to  economize  in  various 
ways.  She  would  have  to  get  up  in  the  morning 
at  a  reasonable  hour.  And  so  on. 

"If  you  can  make  her  get  up  in  the  morning," 
laughed  her  father,  "you'll  be  doing  more  than 
we  were  ever  able  to  do.  And  if  you  can  per- 
suade her  to  do  housework — cooking,  sewing, 
anything  like  that — well,  I'll  say  the  age  of  mir- 
acles isn't  past." 

Stanley  fell  into  frowning  silence,  while  Lydig 
went  on  to  say  that  the  only  thing  for  a  man  to  do 
in  the  face  of  a  crisis  is  to  decide  deep  down 


no  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

within  himself  what  is  the  right  and  best  course 
for  him  to  follow,  and  then  to  follow  it.  "You're 
at  the  parting  of  the  ways,  my  boy.  I  naturally 
think  of  Patricia's  advantage,  but  no  good  can 
come  from  spoiling  her,  coddling  her.  I've  done 
enough  of  that  already.  You  must  start  right. 
The  first  year  of  married  life  is  the  most  impor- 
tant. You  establish  a  precedent. 

"As  to  the  money  part  of  it,  money  isn't  every- 
thing. On  the  contrary,  your  children  will  be 
spoiled  by  too  much  money,  and  if  you  go  on  year 
after  year,  piling  up  a  fortune  at  the  expense  of 
your  best  aspirations  and  possibilities,  they  will 
be  the  first  to  turn  against  you  later  on  and  say, 
'Poor  old  dad,  that  was  the  best  he  could  do  I' 
which  will  wound  you  cruelly,  for  you  will  know 
that  the  fault  was  your  own,  that  you  failed  to 
do  the  big  thing  in  life  you  might  have  done  be- 
cause you  lacked  the  courage  to  assert  yourself 
as  the  head  of  your  own  family." 

That  settled  it.  Stanley  turned  to  the  older 
man  with  a  light  of  high  purpose  in  his  eyes  and 
said  simply:  "By  George,  sir,  you're  righ*.  I'll 
do  it.  I'll  take  the  risk.  I'm  going  back  to 
Montecito  now  and — well,  I  may  run  down  again 
in  a  few  weeks  and  let  you  know  what  happens." 


CHAPTER  XII 

PATRICIA  WORKS  FOR  A  WIFELY  HALO 

A  LULL  for  the  lovers  before  the  storm,  a  long, 
lazy  lull  in  the  bungalow  at  Montecito,  most  beau- 
tiful spot  on  earth,  Stan  declared;  but  Patricia 
called  it  hatefully  beautiful. 

A  premonitory  clash  came  one  morning  in 
August  at  the  breakfast  table — ancient  center  of 
domestic  trouble — laid  attractively  in  the  garden 
under  the  tropical  horse-chestnuts. 

Patricia  sat  there  waiting.  Her  eyes  moved 
restlessly  over  the  lawn  where  the  jacaranda  trees 
had  shed  their  blossoms  in  exquisite  lavender 
pools;  then  on  along  flower-bright  paths  to  the 
garden,  humming,  astir,  fragrant  with  summer's 
jsecrets. 

"Tell  your  master  I've  been  waiting  fifteen 
minutes,"  she  said  fretfully  to  Louis  Tong,  their 
immaculate  Chinese  servant  with  his  neatly 
braided  blue-black  hair  wound  about  his  head. 

uYes,  Missey  Cleighton,"  lisped  the  Oriental, 
in 


ii2  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

vouchsafing  one  of  his  rare,  but  irresistible  smiles 
as  he  trotted  away. 

Patricia  was  irritated  by  the  knowledge  that 
Stanley  had  worked  late  the  night  before  at  his 
interminable  novel.  That  novel !  It  seemed  like 
divided  allegiance;  also  it  was  a  perpetual  re- 
minder of  their  impaired  financial  state. 

She  had  another  unexpressed  grievance  in  a 
subtle  change  she  had  noticed  or  thought  she 
noticed  in  Stan's  attitude  toward  her  ever  since 
his  visit  to  Los  Angeles  a  fortnight  before ;  in  this 
change  Patsy  had  sensed  her  father's  influence. 
She  could  scarcely  believe  that  Stan  would  have 
gone  to  see  her  father  without  telling  her,  but — 
where  did  he  get  these  new  fathery  ideas?  If  he 
had  gone,  she  would  be  furious.  One  master-of- 
her-fate  was  enough.  To  have  two  who  chummed 
together  and  talked  her  over  would  be  the  last 
straw. 

Stan  appeared  presently  in  working  attire 
which,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  of  a  rough-and- 
ready  albeit  comfortable  character — a  gray  shirt 
with  rolled  down  collar  open  at  the  throat,  an  old 
pair  of  trousers  and  a  most  disreputable,  flapping 
pair  of  red  slippers  covering  socks  that  needed 
darning,  at  least  one  of  them  did.  And  his  shock 
of  red  hair  glistened  redder  than  usual  after  his 
morning  shower.  All  of  which  exasperated  Pat, 


Louis  Tong 


PATRICIA  WORKS  113 

especially  his  serene  indifference  to  the  impression 
he  was  making,  his  masterful  sloppiness,  as  she 
called  it.  Already  Stan  was  thinking  of  his  book, 
eager  to  get  back  to  the  day's  task  and  take  up 
the  creative  threads  where  he  had  left  them  the 
night  before. 

"Morning,  dear,"  he  nodded  as  he  seated  him- 
self and  made  ready  to  eat,  drumming  meantime 
on  the  table  with  strong,  freckled  fingers  and 
watching  the  cool,  shifting  shadows  patterned  by 
the  foliage  on  the  white  damask. 

It  was  a  trifle  now  that  started  the  battle  of 
words,  a  disapproving  glance  and  comment  by 
Patricia  regarding  his  appearance,  more  particu- 
larly those  horrible  red  slippers  and  blue  socks 
— with  a  hole  in  one  of  them ! 

"That's  a  little  up  to  you,  isn't  it?"  he  smiled. 

"Why  is  it?"  she  flared.  "Why  should  I  be 
responsible  for  your  socks?" 

"Somebody's  got  to  look  after  things.  Yester- 
day I  hadn't  a  clean  collar." 

"Well,  suppose  I  hadn't  a  clean  blouse! 
Would  you  worry?" 

He  eyed  her  sharply,  and  met  the  implied  chal- 
lenge, saying  good-naturedly: 

"Look  here,  Pat.  I  say  it's  up  to  you  to  see 
that  this  house  is  better  managed.  You  don't 
know  what  Louis  Tong  is  doing  in  the  kitchen — 


ii4  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

what  he  buys  or  how  much  he  spends!  You 
should.  You  promised  to  be  my  partner,  and  if 
our  exchequer  has  diminished — " 

"That's  not  my  fault.  If  a  housewife  was 
what  you  wanted  when  you  married  me,  you  could 
have  hired  one." 

"Pat!" 

"Over  at  Catalina  I  told  you  .  .  ." 

"And  I  told  you  what  I'd  expect  of  you,"  he 
interrupted.  "I  weakened  because  I — well,  I 
hoped  you'd  grow  to  care  for  me.  Besides,  I 
hate  these  clashes.  They  soil  love.  I  know  how 
your  father  felt,  I  see  why  he  couldn't  bring  him- 
self to  force  you  to  do  things." 

She  pricked  up  her  ears.  How  did  Stan  know 
that  her  father  could  not  force  her  to  do  things? 
Besides  he  had! 

"Now  I  insist  upon  your  doing  your  share," 
her  husband  went  on. 

"Insist!  You  can't  get  anything  out  of  me 
through  force,  Stan  Creighton.  You  may  as  well 
know  it.  I'll  bring  my  share  to  this  partnership, 
but  in  a  different  way.  I  want  to  write  ...  I 
want  to  write  quite  as  much  as  you  do." 

Stan  laughed. 

"You've  never  taken  my  writing  or  my  art  seri- 
ously," she  went  on  hotly.  "Never,  never! 


PATRICIA  WORKS  115 

You  seem  to  think  that  all  women  are  meant  for 
is  to  be  nice  little  domestic  tabbies.  Well,  some 
of  us  are  not." 

"I  haven't  seen  you  laboring  at  your  writing, 
Pat.  You've  dabbled  a  bit,  that's  all.  If  you're 
in  earnest  why  don't  you  work?  Masterpieces 
aren't  thrown  off  in  a  moment  of  careless  rapture. 
Everything  takes  hard  work.  Now  your  art. 
.  .  .  There  you  have  a  real  gift." 

Father  again!  Work!  And  her  art!  Her 
father  had  wanted  her  to  commercialize  this  by 
making  posters.  Stan  would  be  suggesting  this 
next,  she  thought  tearfully. 

"I  tell  you  I  can't  work  here,"  she  choked. 
"I've  tried  again  and  again.  The  white  paper 
stares  back  at  me,  empty — empty  as  the  days, 
empty  as  my  mind  of  ideas.  .  .  .  Probably  I'll 
never  really  work  until  I'm  forced  to,  until  I  have 
to  earn  my  bread  and  butter.  I've  felt  all  along 
that  I  should  be  on  my  own.  I  wanted  to  try  it 
in  New  York  and  father  put  a  dam  to  that  ambi- 
tion. It  sent  me  off  on  a  tangent.  That's  what 
dams  do." 

"I  suppose  I'm  the  tangent." 

"If  I've  made  a  mistake,  it's  better  to  acknowl- 
"dge  it  now  and  start  over  again,  isn't  it?" 

Stan  had  grown  grave. 


n6  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

"Mistake?  Oh,  Patsy,"  he  pleaded,  "'can't  you 
come  down  to  earth,  forget  yourself  for  a  while 
and  help  me?" 

At  which  she  flashed  back  angrily:  "If  you 
had  told  me  we  were  to  live  the  simple  life  when 
I  married  you,  that  would  have  been  different. 
But  you  didn't!  It  wasn't  fair,  Stan.  You've 
humiliated  me." 

II 

The  outcome  of  this  talk  was  an  absolute  com- 
mand from  Creighton  that  his  wife  assume  the 
housekeeping  responsibility.  A  direct  command! 
Patricia  felt  prisoned,  bound  to  stay  here,  bound 
to  act  as  he  wished.  She  bottled  her  rage,  but  it 
fermented  and  grew  more  dangerous  each  day  as 
she  went  about  her  imposed  domestic  duties.  She 
hated  housework  with  a  deep  and  smoldering 
hatred,  most  unchristian  and  unwomanly.  Why 
should  a  woman  spend  half  her  day  planning  the 
meals  for  her  lord  and  master  and  the  rest  of  the 
time  superintending  the  house?  Why  must  she 
always  adjust  her  mood  to  her  husband's  mood, 
achieving  harmony  only  by  tactful  management  of 
him,  that  is  by  the  sacrifice  of  her  mental,  spiritual 
and  physical  self?  If  marriage  were  really  a 
partnership,  why  might  not  he  adjust  himself  a 
little  to  her?  Also,  if  a  woman  can  earn  money 


PATRICIA  WORKS  117 

by  writing  or  business  activities  or  otherwise,  why 
may  she  not  give  her  share  in  that  way  and  pay 
a  housekeeper?  Stan's  conception  of  a  fine  wo- 
man was  absurd,  old-fashioned,  he  wanted  her  to 
be  the  dispenser  of  a  deep  and  sacrificial  type  of 
love,  but  Patricia  could  not  give  that  kind;  she 
realized  this  more  and  more  each  day. 

But  one  evening  Woozy  came  and  reasoned 
with  Patricia,  pleaded  with  her,  the  result  being 
that  for  a  time  the  rebellious  bride  was  placated; 
indeed  Patsy  made  various  good  resolutions  which 
she  recorded  day  by  day,  or  rather  night  by  night, 
in  her  diary. 

Thus  on  Friday:  "Stan's  eyes  follow  me  so 
wistfully  and  appealingly  that  I  feel  shamed. 
What  if  he  is  dogmatic  and  insistent  about  the 
housekeeping?  Probably  his  mother  and  all  the 
good  women  he  has  ever  known  or  read  about 
have  been  like  that." 

And  again  on  Saturday:  "I  register  a  vow  to 
try — each  day  for  two  weeks  I'll  try.  I'll  woo 
the  kitchen,  the  mending,  the  marketing.  I'll 
study  the  menus.  I'll  try  to  be  economical." 

And  on  Sunday:  "I  can't  help  it,  I  hate  house- 
work. I  despise  it.  If  it  wasn't  that  Stan  is  so 
pathetically  funny  in  his  joy  at  my  attempts,  I'd 
throw  the  whole  thing  up  this  minute." 

And  on  Monday:     "What's  the  use  of  persist- 


n8  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

ing  in  a  thing  that  one  does  badly?  I'm  a  misfit. 
My  temper  is  worn  to  a  frazzle.  Perhaps  Stan 
is  right;  he  says  I'm  smoking  too  many  cigarettes. 
Well,  I'll  try  cutting  down  on  them." 

And  on  Tuesday:  "Stan  marches  heroically 
about  in  his  socks — the  ones  I've  darned!  I 
know  they  are  lumpy;  I  choke  over  a  laugh  and 
end  by  weeping." 

And  on  Wednesday:  "I  must  be  economical. 
I  cannot  make  money  elastic.  My  once  cheerful 
Louis  Tong  has  developed  into  a  regular  grouch. 
His  grin  has  departed.  He  hates  me  in  his  do- 
main. Sensible  man,  Louis  Tong!" 

And  on  Thursday:  "Working  for  a  wifely 
halo  is  some  job.  I've  cut  down  on  cigarettes, 
six  a  day,  and  Stan's  approbation  stares  nakedly 
from  his  good  clean  eyes.  Oh,  he  is  dear  and 
kind.  A  dull  pain  closes  down  on  my  heart  as  I 
realize  my  inability  to  measure  up  to  his  expec- 
tations. Stan,  dear,  I'm  sorry.  I'm  sorrier  than 
you'll  ever  know.  I'm  not  really  a  quitter,  but 
isn't  all  this  frenzied  drudgery  a  farce?" 

^And  on  Friday:  "Rocks  ahead!  I  can't  keep 
this  up  much  longer.  I'm  beaten  before  I  start. 
Why  should  I  make  myself  over  into  something 
I  am  not?  Sewing  and  mending!  Food,  food, 
food!  I  could  scream  with  the  deadly  dullness 
of  it.  I'm  taking  Stan  as  he  is.  Why  can't  he 


PATRICIA  WORKS  119 

take  me  as  I  am,  faults  and  all,  if  he  loves  me  as 
much  as  he  says?  If  I  loved  a  man  as  much  as 
I  could  love,  I'd  probably  be  happy  to  scrub  for 
him.  That's  it!  I  don't  love  Stan  enough." 

And  on  Saturday:  "Each  night  I  look  into  the 
mirror  for  my  halo.  It  hasn't  appeared — any- 
way halos  are  irritating.  Haven't  smoked  at  all 
to-day.  Nervous  as  a  cat!" 

And  on  Sunday:  "I've  been  sounding  myself 
and  my  inability  to  meet  this  domestic  exigency, 
and  I  conclude  I  have  been  brought  up  all  wrong. 
My  parents  crippled  me  by  their  loving  indulgence. 
I've  never  been  trained  to  do  anything  except  to 
lean  on  those  who  love  me,  and  their  sacrifices 
have  made  me  pathetically  useless.  I'm  only  just 
awakening  to  this  astounding  fact." 

On  Monday  Patricia  did  not  write  about  house- 
hold perplexities,  but  touched  upon  a  matter  of 
graver  import:  "After  all  have  Stan  and  I  much 
in  common?  Take  literature,  this  wonderful 
literature  that  he's  sacrificing  everything  for.  He 
certainly  has  some  antiquated  ideas  here.  He 
eats  up  sentimental  stuff  that  sickens  me.  'You're 
all  for  showy  brilliance,'  he  flung  back  at  me  to- 
day. 'Cold  beauty  isn't  enough  for  suffering 
mankind.  Why  give  them  a  stone  when  they 
hunger  for  bread?' 

"I  told  him  he  sounded  like  Billy  Sunday,  and 


120  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

I  acknowledged  that  beauty  satisfies  me.  Walter 
Pater's  chaste  reticence  quickens  my  pulses,  Oscar 
Wilde's  verve  dazzles  me,  Shaw's  cheery  cynicism 
flatters  me  into  believing  that  just  Shaw  and  my- 
self are  the  clever  ones  on  earth.  I  say  there's 
no  excuse  for  writing  anything,  if  one  can't  write 
it  beautifully.  I  like  outward  beauty  in  all 
things;  pretty  clothes,  homes  of  friendly  dignity, 
all  the  graces  of  life.  They  charm  me.  When 
I  told  Stan  this  he  said:  'They're  not  worth  a 
damn  without  sincerity  and  heart.' ' 

On  Tuesday  she  wrote:  "Deep  down  in  my 
heart  persists  a  belief  in  my  ability  to  do  some- 
thing well,  to  give  and  take  generously,  as  life 
demands." 

And  on  Wednesday,  after  twelve  days  of  vain 
effort  to  be  a  domestic  wife,  Patricia  abandoned 
the  attempt  with  this  wail  of  despair :  "I  give  it  up. 
It's  too  much  for  me.  Stan's  pride  has  been 
flattered  that  I've  tried  and  I've  been  able  to 
preen  myself  a  bit;  but  really  I  haven't  done  much 
good.  I've  been  like  the  child  helping  its  mother 
wipe  the  dishes,  more  of  hindrance  than  a  help. 
I'm  backsliding  again  on  cigarettes — a  box  and  a 
half  to-day.  But  in  the  words  of  my  husband,  I 
don't  give  a  damn!  I'm  sick  of  holding  in,  of 
play-acting  as  a  model  wife.  From  now  on  I'm 
going  to  be  myself!" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  LURE  OF  CLOTHES 

A  WEEK  passed  .  .  .  then  suddenly  came  the 
crisis,  through  one  of  those  little  happenings  that 
flash  out,  like  sparks  in  a  powder-mine,  whenever 
the  powder-mine  is  ready. 

It  was  a  morning  in  late  September.  There 
was  a  decided  snap  in  the  air.  Gusts  of  wind 
whirled  yellowing  leaves  from  the  trees,  heaped 
them  about  the  tree  trunks  or  over  the  lawns, 
heralding  Autumn.  Patricia  was  bored,  fretful, 
irritated.  Life  stagnated  about  her.  She  saw 
that  in  this  marriage  she  had  taken  a  reckless  leap 
into  the  dark,  and  was  now  groping  helplessly. 
Still,  she  did  not  reproach  herself,  but  rather  her 
husband.  What  right  had  Stanley  to  cheat  her 
of  the  future  his  money  had  apparently  offered? 
She  had  thought  she  loved  him — yes — but  that 
was  in  a  certain  setting.  Taken  out  of  that  set- 
ting, she  might  never  have  considered  him.  Men 
were  so  conceited,  so  intensely  vain  of  their  man- 
hood! The  poorest,  oldest,  most  decrepit  man 

121 


122  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

fancies  he  may  still  win  the  loveliest  of  debutantes, 
he  actually  does ! 

Pat  ordered  Louis  Tong  to  saddle  her  horse, 
but  changed  her  mind  and  took  the  car.  Fancy 
speeding  in  a  Dodge !  It  belittled  her  emotions ; 
stepped  on  the  brakes  of  her  spirit.  But  she 
laughed  as  she  swung  recklessly  out  of  the  rustic 
gate,  nipped  off  a  corner  of  it  and  sent  it  flying  to 
the  bulging-eyed  envy  of  two  small  country  boys 
hovering  near. 

Poor  Pat!  Her  soul  was  unsteady,  like  this 
rattling  machine  as  it  plunged  down  the  steep  and 
rocky  mountain  road.  The  oaks,  wildwood  tan- 
gles of  berries  and  trailing  grape-vines  failed  to 
rouse  in  her  a  throb  of  interest,  while  the  distant 
sparkle  of  the  ocean  only  increased  her  exaspera- 
tion. It  symbolized  the  sea  of  life  that  she 
longed  to  be  adventuring  on,  but  was  not. 

Once  on  the  well-paved  boulevard  leading  into 
Santa  Barbara,  Patricia  let  the  car  out;  it  leaped 
forward,  bringing  tears  to  her  eyes  from  the  sting 
of  the  air.  If  she  only  had  a  real  car,  how  she 
would  have  humored  this  restless  demon  within 
her! 

As  she  turned  up  State  Street  she  all  but  col- 
lided with  a  stunning  dark  blue  car,  evidently  of 
French  make.  She  stared  enviously,  then  noticed 


THE  LURE  OF  CLOTHES         123 

the  driver,  a  smart,  cock-sure  young  person  in  a 
dashing  black  and  yellow  sports  outfit,  who  turned 
at  that  moment.  An  incredulous  light  dawned 
simultaneously  in  the  eyes  of  both. 

"Margot  Regnier!"  Patricia  cried  excitedly. 

"Patricia !" 

Their  machines  soon  hugged  the  curb,  and  after 
a  hasty  exchange  of  confidences,  they  decided  to 
park  the  plebeian  Dodge  and  were  off  in  the  purr- 
ing beauty. 

Margot  had  been  one  of  the  most  envied  girls 
at  Miss  Spence's  School.  She  had  brains,  or  at 
least  superficial  brilliancy;  and  a  dark  beauty  that 
amazed.  Also  money  and  charm.  French  on 
her  father's  side,  Irish  on  her  mother's,  with  all 
the  dash  and  dare  of  her  American  upbringing, 
she  had  led  her  parents  a  merry  chase.  Six 
months  after  her  coming-out  party  in  New  York, 
at  the  height  of  a  spectacular  social  triumph, 
Pere  Regnier  happened  in  unexpectedly  at  a  little 
smoker  Margot  was  giving  one  evening,  where- 
jupon  she  was  packed  off  unceremoniously  to  a 
Western  College.  Six  months  later  she  was  po- 
litely asked  to  leave,  much  to  her  joy  and  her 
father's  wrath  and  shame. 

At  her  wit's  end  now  for  an  entrance  into 
longed-for  freedom,  Margot  had  married  Don 
Hammond,  a  middle-aged  fortune  hunter ;  but  her 


i24  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

father,  still  the  source  of  supplies,  was  not  ready 
for  them  to  return  to  New  York,  so  she  and  Don 
were  temporarily  caged  with  a  dull  and  dowdy 
aunt  who  owned  a  mansion  perched  on  a  neigh- 
boring cliff. 

"There's  my  tale  of  woe,"  laughed  Margot. 
"Now  tell  me  yours,  old  darling!" 

Flattered  by  the  interest  in  her  career  indicated 
in  Margot's  shining  dark  eyes,  Patricia  gradually 
told  her  whole  story,  nor  did  she  conceal  her 
present  impatience,  dissatisfaction,  rebellion. 
She  drove  home  aflutter  with  excitement. 

But  a  few  days  later  when  Margot  called  and 
had  tea  with  them  in  their  little  chintz-hung  liv- 
ing room,  she  saw  that  Stan  was  going  to  be  un- 
manageable about  her  friend. 

"I  don't  like  her,"  he  said  decisively  after- 
wards, "I  don't  like  the  beautiful  shell  of  her, 
nor  the  little  farce  of  her  soul." 

On  the  other  hand  Margot  was  frankly  pleased 
with  Stan  and  rhapsodized  openly  to  Patricia 
about  him;  but  Creighton  persistently  refused  her 
invitations,  so  Patsy  went  alone.  These  lavish 
parties  of  Margot's  led  to  other  invitations  that 
called  for  new  clothes.  This  stirred  the  young 
wife's  resentment,  for  she  had  had  nothing  new  in 
months. 

Patricia  was  at  Margot's  one  afternoon  when 


THE  LURE  OF  CLOTHES         125 

the  maid  unpacked  a  box  from  a  famous  New 
York  dressmaker's. 

"What  gorgeous  things!"  sighed  Pat,  enviously. 

"Why  don't  you  order  a  gown  or  two  your- 
self?" suggested  Margot  as  she  lifted  a  creamy 
lace  gown  from  its  tissue  paper  wrappings. 
"This  sort  of  thing  would  be  wonderful  on  you, 
cherie,  with  your  short  curls.  I  could  send  in 
your  orders  with  mine,  and  ask  them  to  mail  the 
bill  to  your  husband." 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  do  that!" 

"Why  not?  Don't  be  a  darn  little  fool. 
What's  a  husband  for?  Work  him,  my  dear. 
Use  your  sex  charm.  Men  are  such  innocent 
babies — lambs  led  to  the  slaughter." 

She  gathered  up  two  exquisite  negligees,  an 
orchid  creation  over  a  flesh  chiffon,  and  a  luscious 
apricot  with  dashes  of  turquoise  blue  and,  squint- 
ing her  dazzling  dark  eyes  until  they  became  mere 
black  slits  through  her  heavy,  curling  lashes,  she 
said: 

"Here,  take  this  orchid  affair.  Something  new 
gives  one  confidence  .  .  ."  Her  laugh  discon- 
certed Patricia,  who  blushed  painfully,  then 
blushed  because  she  had  blushed. 

"I  hate  this  underhand  feminine  way  of  get- 
ting things,"  she  rebelled. 

"You  ought  to  have  been  a  boy,  Pat.     You're 


126  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

so  absurdly  honest.  Women  must  be  tactful." 
Again  that  provocative  laugh. 

"That's  it,"  replied  Patricia  with  fierce  earnest- 
ness. "A  man  can  walk  upright  in  the  sun,  but 
a  woman  has  to  creep  and  fawn.  I  detest  it." 

Nevertheless  she  listened  to  Margot's  tempting, 
for  clothes  are  a  disease  with  women.  Against 
her  will  she  listened.  One  by  one  Pat's  argu- 
ments for  the  decent  course  (meaning  self-re- 
straint) were  brushed  aside,  and  before  she  left 
she  had  sent  in  an  order  to  Lucile  for  two  simple 
but  appallingly  expensive  evening  gowns,  and  an 
evening  cloak.  Also  Margot  persuaded  her  that 
her  old  riding  suit  could  be  improved  upon,  and, 
well  .  .  .  why  not? 

Patricia  went  home  torn  between  happy  excite- 
ment over  the  prospect  of  some  new  clothes,  and 
a  guilty  feeling  that  she  had  betrayed  Stan. 

That  night  at  dinner  she  exerted  herself  to 
draw  her  husband  out  of  the  detached,  imper- 
sonal attitude  that  he  had  held  too  persistently 
of  late,  and  finally  obtained  his  promise  to  go  to 
Margot's  next  party.  Here  it  was  that  Stan  met 
Margot's  husband,  Don  Hammond,  an  old  wreck 
(he  was  over  forty  and  looked  for  all  the  world 
like  a  shriveled,  Bellflower  apple)  who  before  his 
marriage  was  a  poverty-stricken,  would-be  artist, 
living  by  his  wits  and  social  position.  Margot 


Don  Hammond.    That  old  Don  Juan  is  like  a  yellow  plant  that 
has  grown  under  a  moldy  board 


THE  LURE  OF  CLOTHES         127 

accepted  him  because  his  frost-bitten  speech 
amused  her,  and  because,  being  subject  to  her  gifts, 
he  would  be  meek  and  lowly  under  her  commands. 

"A  lot  of  rotters,"  Stanley  characterized  them 
as  they  drove  home.  "That  old  Don  Juan  is  like 
a  yellow  plant  that  has  grown  under  a  moldy 
board.  I  forbid  you  to  have  anything  more  to 
do  with  him  or  his  crowd." 

"Forbid!" 

"Yes,  forbid,"  he  repeated.  "If  you're  still 
a  child,  I  must  treat  you  like  one.  .  .  ."  Then 
after  a  second,  through  his  teeth,  "Thank  God 
you're  not  a  liar.  You're  not  like  that  deceitful 
cat  Margot.  Believe  me,  she's  no  friend  of 
yours." 

That  night  Patricia  wrote  in  her  diary:  "I 
have  analyzed  myself  unmercifully  and  I  admit 
that  I  am  a  joke  as  a  housekeeper  and  home- 
maker.  I'm  not  making  good  as  an  artist.  I'm 
persistently  unhappy.  I'm  a  round  peg  in  a 
square  hole.  My  quarrels  with  Stan  always  end 
in  reconciliations,  but  they  cheapen  me  in  my  own 
eyes.  To  take  clothes,  presents,  anything  from  a 
man  one  does  not  love,  even  if  he  is  called  one's 
husband,  is  in  my  opinion  contemptibly  low. 
This  idea  grows  on  me,  constantly  shaming  me." 

And  the  next  night  she  wrote:  "Once  I  said 
that  I  did  not  want  love  to  dominate  me;  now  I 


128  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

am  convinced  that  I  have  not  had  a  peep  at  love, 
even  through  a  half-closed  door.  Nine-tenths  of 
the  women  in  the  world  never  do!  I  won't  be 
one  of  these  women.  I  want  the  rare,  unshared 
things.  /  want  to  know  what  love  is  even  if  I 
get  hurt  in  knowina/" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

PATRICIA  DECIDES  TO   LEAVE    HER   HUSBAND 

A  FORTNIGHT  later  Stanley  announced  to  Pa- 
tricia that  he  was  going  to  Los  Angeles  to  see 
her  father,  and  this  brought  her  former  sus- 
picions to  a  certainty. 

"You  went  to  see  him  before — didn't  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  admitted  calmly,  "I  did.  I  had  to. 
I'd  take  any  course  that  would  help  us  toward 
happiness." 

"I  think  it  was  contemptible  of  you.  I  can't 
believe  it." 

"And  I  can't  believe — these,"  he  retorted, 
striking  his  hand  against  a  pile  of  her  bills  heaped 
on  his  desk.  "It  was  beneath  you  to  burden  me 
like  this,  Pat,  just  when  I  need  your  help.  It  was 
that  odious  Margot's  influence,  I  know  it  was." 

Followed  a  terrific  culminative  quarrel.  Pa- 
tricia tried  to  put  spirit  into  her  excuses,  but  at 
heart  she  knew  herself  to  be  in  the  wrong.  How 
could  those  miserable  bills  have  accumulated  so 
rapidly?  Of  course  the  new  car  (in  spite  of  trad- 

129 


1 30  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

ing  in  the  Dodge)  made  a  big  item;  then  she  had 
suffered  heavy  losses  at  bridge.  But  eleven  thou- 
sand dollars!  Incredible! 

"I  had  to  amuse  myself  in  some  way,"  she  con- 
tended. 

"Amuse  yourself,  certainly,  within  reason,  but 
why  in  thunder  didn't  you  trust  me,  ask  me  for 
money?  I'm  not  a  monster." 

"Why  does  a  woman  always  have  to  humiliate 
herself  and  ask  money  of  a  man?" 

"Because  marriage  is  a  partnership.  Besides, 
he  earns  the  money." 

"If  it's  a  partnership,  why  doesn't  he  consult 
her  about  what  he  spends?  I  say  there's  no 
liberty  for  a  woman  as  long  as  she  has  to  beg 
money  of  a  man.  When  I  married  you  I  ex- 
pected to  have  the  beautiful  things  I've  always 
craved.  I  knew  you  were  making  plenty  of 
money  .  .  ." 

Stan  frowned. 

"I  thought  you  loved  me,"  she  continued. 

"Lord,  that  word  love!  The  most  abused 
word  in  the  English  language.  You  haven't  even 
a  bowing  acquaintance  with  it." 

"Perhaps  not.  I  hate  housework,  that's  cer- 
tain. If  you  want  me  to  stay  with  you,  you'll 
have  to  make  some  other  arrangements." 

"If  I  want  you  to  stay  with  me  ...    ?" 


TO  LEAVE    HER    HUSBAND      131 

"Yes,  I  can  go  back  to  New  York,  go  to 
work." 

He  stared  at  her  for  a  long,  steady  moment. 
She  could  feel  the  blood  rush  into  her  cheeks ;  but 
she  shut  her  jaws  hard  and  steeled  her  will. 

"I'm  sick  of  this  farce,"  she  added  as  he  turned 
away. 

They  separated  for  the  night  without  a  kiss, 
and  Patricia  lay  awake  for  hours  sounding  the 
situation,  longing  to  go  to  him,  hating  herself  be- 
cause she  could  not  summon  the  right  emotion 
to  meet  the  moment,  wondering,  analyzing  .  .  „ 

II 

The  next  morning  Stanley  announced  his  de- 
cision. 

"I've  come  to  a  sharp  turn  in  the  road,"  he 
said.  "I  need  advice.  Instead  of  going  to  a 
lawyer,  I'm  going  to  your  father.  I  like  him  and 
trust  him.  Come,  go  with  me,  Pat,"  he  urged. 
"Pocket  your  pride." 

Patricia's  eyes  grew  misty  as  tender  memories 
of  her  mother  and  father  flooded  in,  pictures  of 
them  as  they  were,  and  would  be.  She  concen- 
trated with  fierce  steadiness  on  the  zinnias,  her 
effort  at  control  causing  her  throat  to  ache  in- 
tolerably. "Why  not  go?"  tempted  the  still 


I32  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

small  voice  within;  but  aloud  she  said:  "I'll  de- 
cide and  let  you  know  at  luncheon,  Stan." 

"Why,  bless  you,"  he  cried  in  delighted  sur- 
prise, "bless  you,  Pat,  my  dear."  And  to  Louis 
Tong's  grinning  confusion  he  swept  her  out  of 
her  chair  into  his  arms,  while  the  Chinaman  beat 
a  hasty  retreat  with  the  hot  coffee.  For  a  second 
Pat  clung  to  her  husband,  listening  to  the  blunt 
sincerity  of  his  devotion.  Why  could  she  not  be 
what  he  wanted  her  to  be?  That  model  and 
priceless  housewife  of  biblical  times  whom  her 
father  used  to  quote. 

"She  .  .  .  worketh  willingly  with  her  hands. 
She  riseth  also  while  it  is  yet  night  and  giveth 
meat  to  her  household  and  a  portion  to  her 
maidens" 


III 


All  through  the  morning  Patricia  wrestled  with 
herself;  she  resolved  to  have  reached  a  decision 
when  the  sun  had  climbed  to  the  topmost  rocky 
peak  before  her.  She  lay  in  the  hammock  and, 
fascinated,  watched  the  sunlight  creep  up  the  hill- 
side, watched  it  steal  softly  over  the  sage  and 
scrub  oaks,  now  touching  a  clump  of  eucalyptus 
trees  that  cut  cathedral-like  into  the  hazy  blue, 
then  insinuating  itself  on  and  up  the  brown, 


TO  LEAVE    HER    HUSBAND      133 

seared   hillside   until   it  blazed    on   the   topmost 
ledge ! 

During  this  Woozy  came  and  fought  her;  made 
her  see  things  that  she  had  known  before,  but 
never  acknowledged. 

WOOZY 

It's  abominable !  You're  thinking  of  running 
away. 

PATRICIA 

(Defiant)      I    can't    endure    this    any    longer. 
It's  no  use  trying.     I  crave  action,  movement — 
New  York.     I  want  to  live! 
WOOZY 

Haven't  you  any  sense  of  duty?     Or  decency? 
You've  run  away  once  already. 
PATRICIA 

I  can't  help  it.  I  must  work  out  my  own  des- 
tiny without  the  interference  of  any  man.  I'm 
not  going  to  do  domestic  drudgery. 

WOOZY 

If  you  support  yourself  in  New  York,  you'll 
have  to  do  more  disagreeable  things. 

PATRICIA 
I'll  be  free  anyway. 

WOOZY 

No.  A  woman  is  never  free.  Why  can't  you 
speak  the  truth?  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you 
why  you  are  unhappy  here? 


i34  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

PATRICIA 

Why? 

WOOZY 

You  think  you  haven't  found  your  ideal  of  a 
man.  If  you  had,  you'd  do  the  drudgery  gladly. 
And  economize  gladly.  It's  this  treacherous 
glint  of  wings  that  is  luring  you  on,  promising 
something  magical,  enchanting,  beyond,  just  be- 
yond your  reach  .  .  . 

PATRICIA 
You're  clever  to  see  that,  Woozy. 

WOOZY 

You  hope  to  find  your  ideal  in  New  York,  but 
— it's  a  mirage,  Pat. 

PATRICIA 

(Dreamily)  I  wonder.  I'm  going  to  find 
out.  I'm  going  to  follow  the  truest  instincts  of 
my  womanhood.  Thousands  of  women  spoil  their 
lives  because  they  compromise  before  an  issue 
like  this.  I'm  not  going  to  compromise.  I  owe 
that  to  myself.  And  in  the  end  I'll  hold  the  flut- 
tering wings  of  happiness.  You'll  see. 

WOOZY 

Why  didn't  you  think  of  this  before  you  mar- 
ried Stan? 

PATRICIA 

They  didn't  give  me  time,  father  and  Stan  be- 
tween them.  They  overwhelmed  me  with  mascu- 


TO  LEAVE    HER    HUSBAND      135 

line  insistence,  as  men  always  do.  Stan  happened 
to  want  me  so  he  carried  me  off.  He  took  it  for 
granted  that  I  loved  him.  Now  he's  furious  be- 
cause I  can't  live  up  to  his  foolish  idea  of  what  I 
ought  to  be.  Why  didn't  he  leave  me  alone? 
WOOZY 

(Pleading}      Patsy,  you  think  you're  unhappy 
with  Stan,  but  you'll  be  unhappier  without  him. 
Besides,  you  are  legally  his  wife.     He  has  rights. 
PATRICIA 

Don't  be  silly.  Stan  doesn't  want  me — against 
my  will.  (Tenderly}  Poor  Stan!  (After  an 
embarrassed  silence}  Woozy,  I'm  much  obliged 
to  you  for  one  thing,  you've  made  me  understand 
why  I  don't  love  Stan  in  the  ideal  way.  It  just 
came  to  me — like  a  flash. 

WOOZY 

Why? 

PATRICIA 

I  won't  say  it.     I  won't  humiliate  myself. 


IV 


High  noon  and  the  sun-tipped  ledge !  Patricia 
shut  her  lips  and  steeled  herself  to  her  decision. 
The  struggle  was  over.  She  rose  to  answer  the 
deep,  musical  call  of  the  gongs,  announcing  lunch- 
eon. When  Stan  came  out  of  his  study,  elabo- 


i36  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

rately  casual,  she  went  up  to  him  at  once  and  met 
his  eyes  squarely. 

"I  can't  go  with  you  this  afternoon,  dear,  but 
you  can  take  father  and  mother  my  love;  please 
tell  them  I  am  sorry  I  couldn't  come — and  I've 
written  father  a  letter — here!"  She  slipped  it 
into  Stan's  coat  pocket,  then  drew  him  down  to 
her  and  kissed  him.  At  which  he  weakened. 

"Say  the  word,  darling,  and  I  won't  go,  per- 
haps it  would  be  better,  perhaps  .  .  ." 

"No,  no,"  she  urged,  "you  must  go — now.  We 
must  have  the  courage  to  carry  through  what  we 
believe  is  right,  both  of  us." 

Stan's  eyes  said  unutterable  things,  and  from 
the  train  he  called  to  her:  "Good-by,  sweet- 
heart! It's  all  coming  out  right.  I'll  be  back 
day  after  to-morrow.  I've  a  surprise  for  you 
then.  Good-by!  Good-by!" 

But  Patricia  knew  that  when  he  came  back  on 
the  day  after  to-morrow  she  would  be  gone! 


CHAPTER  XV 
"YOUR  UNRULY  PAT" 

IT  was  characteristic  of  Creighton  that  in  his 
interview  with  Newton  Lydig,  which  took  place 
over  luncheon  at  the  Los  Angeles  Athletic  Club, 
he  at  first  concealed  the  cause  of  his  anxiety;  his 
loyalty  to  Patricia  led  him  to  present  the  situa- 
tion in  its  most  favorable  aspects.  And  yet  the 
novelist  was  puzzled  by  a  flitting  wistfulness  in 
the  young  man's  smile. 

"Patricia's  been  splendid,"  Stan  declared.  "She 
has  buckled  down  to  plain  living — you'd  be  sur- 
prised. Up  and  dressed  at  eight  o'clock,  and  do- 
ing her  very  best  to  manage  things  in  the  home 
-and — help  me.  She's  even  cut  down  on  her 
cigarettes." 

Lydig  rather  plumed  himself  on  this  develop- 
ment. "It's  the  old  story,"  he  said.  "A  happy 
marriage  will  do  more  for  a  girl  than  all  the 
teaching  and  preaching  in  the  world.  Pat  has 
found  herself.  I  congratulate  you,  both  of  you." 

137 


138  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

Again  he  noticed  that  enigmatical  smile  and  an 
uneasy  or  embarrassed  shifting  of  his  head  and 
shoulders. 

"What's  the  matter?  Don't  you  deserve  con- 
gratulations?" 

"Oh,  yes — er — you  bet  we  do." 

"Then  why  the  peculiar  manner?  You're 
keeping  back  something,  Oh!"  with  a  flash  of 
pleased  anticipation,  "is  it — ?" 

Stan  shook  his  head  slowly.      "No,  not  that." 

"She  isn't  ill?" 

"No." 

"Anything  wrong  with  your  work?  Haven't 
you  been  making  progress  with  your  book?" 

The  answer  came  with  an  odd  little  laugh  as 
Creighton  tapped  a  leather  portfolio  that  he  had 
brought  with  him.  "There  are  thirty-thousand 
words  in  here,  done  in  the  last  month — since  I 
saw  you." 

"Fine !  I  don't  see  what's  troubling  you. 
Come !  Speak  up  I" 

"Oh,  nothing  special — one  or  two  little — er — 
flare-ups." 

"What  about?" 

"Oh,  nerves — that's  all.  You  see  it's  hard  for 
Pat  to  be  economical.  She  ran  into  a  bunch  of 
spenders  up  there,  rich  people  who  have  nothing 
to  do  but  jazz  around  and  blow  their  money  and 


"YOUR  UNRULY  PAT"  139 

— it's  only  natural  Pat  should  want  nice  clothes, 
isn't  it?" 

"Ye-es.     And  nice  clothes  are  expensive." 

"They  sure  are.  Besides  she  got  a  new  car 
and — a  few  other  things." 

At  this  he  grew  serious  and,  beginning  awk- 
wardly, came  presently  to  the  heart  of  the  matter, 
which  was  that,  in  spite  of  brave  efforts  and  a 
promising  start,  Patricia  was  profoundly  unrecon- 
ciled to  the  life  they  were  leading  at  Montecito. 

"The  mistake  I  made,"  Stanley  admitted,  "was 
in  trying  to  put  over  this  simple  life  thing  after 
we  were  married.  I  ought  to  have  told  her  be- 
fore— you  can't  get  away  from  that.  She  knew 
I  was  making  a  lot  of  money  when  I  married  her, 
and  she  had  a  right  to  assume  that  I  would  go 
on  making  it.  We've  got  to  be  fair  to  her." 

"But — we  went  over  all  that." 

"You  and  I  went  over  it.  Pat  didn't  go  over 
it.  She  wasn't  consulted.  That's  one  thing  that 
makes  her  sore.  She  doesn't  see  why  her  whole 
j)lan  of  existence  must  be  changed  because  I  want 
to  write  a  book.  I  can  put  myself  in  her  place. 
She  thought  she  was  marrying  a  rich  man.  There 
are  some  people  in  this  world  who  want  their  own 
way  so  strongly  that  it  makes  them  ill,  pretty 
nearly  kills  'em,  if  they  don't  get  it.  The  only 
salvation  for  people  like  that  is  to  do  the  thing 


i4o  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

they  want  to  do  and  take  the  consequences.  You 
chucked  the  school-teaching  business  when  you 
were  a  young  chap  and  went  off  to  Paris,  didn't 
you,  sir?  Patsy  told  me  about  it.  You  had  to 
go,  didn't  you?" 

The  father  admitted  this. 

"Well,  Pat  feels  about  New  York  the  way  you 
felt  about  Paris.  She  won't  be  satisfied  any- 
where else — not  now.  And  I'm  going  back  into 
the  movies.  I'm  going  to  give  her  all  the  money 
she  wants." 

Lydig  stared  in  surprise.  "That  means  sur- 
render— absolute  surrender?" 

"That's  what  it  means,"  Stan  nodded. 

"Have  you  told  her?" 

"Not  yet,  I  wanted  to  tell  you  first." 

"Then  all  that  we  said  the  other  day — all  our 
arguments — our  reasons — what  about  them?" 

"All  true,  every  one  of  'em.  The  ideal  thing 
to  do  is  to  stick  to  the  simple  living  plan  and  fight 
it  out  on  the  present  lines  up  at  Montecito,  I  know 
that;  but  I'm  not  big  enough  to  put  it  over.  You 
couldn't  put  it  over  either.  You  had  Patricia  with 
you  for  years,  sir,  and  with  all  your  love  and  wis- 
dom you  couldn't  change  her  character  or  force 
her  into  new  ways  of  living,  could  you?  Well, 
neither  can  I.  You  side-stepped  pretty  nearly 
every  straight  issue  that  came  up,  didn't  you? 


"YOUR  UNRULY  PAT"  141 

You  let  her  smoke,  you  let  her  be  extravagant, 
you  let  her  lie  in  bed  mornings  .  .  .  and  so  on. 
Well,  I'm  no  miracle  worker.  I'm  going  to  side- 
step too." 

"I  wonder  if  you  aren't  mistaken  about  Pa- 
tricia," the  father  reflected.  "Perhaps  she's  ad- 
justing herself  better  than  you  think  to  this  new 
life." 

Stan  shook  his  head. 

"No,  Pat's  eating  her  heart  out  for  New  York 
City,  so  I'm  arranging  for  a  transfer  to  the  East- 
ern studio." 

"But  your  work?  Your  ambition  to  do  big 
things?  Does  all  that  go  by  the  board?" 

"Guess  it  does.  I  care  more  for  Pat  than  I 
do  for  fame.  It  wouldn't  satisfy  me  to  turn  out 
the  greatest  novel  ever  written  and  lose  Patricia. 
I  should  say  not  I  Besides,  this  novel  that  I've 
been  doing,"  he  picked  up  the  portfolio,  "it  isn't 
any  good.  I'm  ashamed  of  it.  I've  ground  away 
at  it  day  after  day,  but  the  stuff  is  hopeless.  I 
wouldn't  let  my  publisher  have  it.  There!  I'll 
_show  you  what  I  think  of  my  novel." 

They  had  withdrawn  to  the  smoking  room  and 
were  enjoying  their  demi-tasse  in  front  of  a  mas- 
sive fireplace  where  logs  were  blazing  pleasantly 
against  an  in-creeping  Pacific  fog.  With  a  quick 
movement  Creighton  opened  the  leather  flap  and 


i42  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

tossed   his   thirty-thousand   words   into   the   fire. 

"You're  crazy!"  cried  Lydig,  trying  to  rescue 
the  flaming  pages;  but  it  was  too  late. 

"Not  crazy — that's  the  sanest  thing  I  ever  did. 
I'm  a  good  judge  of  my  work.  I  know  when  it's 
rotten.  I  can't  create  characters  when  I'm  sick 
at  heart.  I'll  never  do  another  stroke  of  novel- 
writing,  never  until  Patricia  is  happy,  really 
happy." 

The  father  sat  fascinated,  profoundly  im- 
pressed, and  did  not  speak  until  that  unfortunate 
mass  of  type-writing  had  smoldered  into  ashes. 

"Poor  child!"  he  sighed.  "I  hoped  it  would 
be  different  when  she  married." 

The  young  man  answered  confidently:  "It's  go- 
ing to  work  out  all  right.  Just  wait  until  I  break 
the  news  to  her.  She'll  be  a  mighty  good  imita- 
tion of  a  happy  girl,  if  I'm  any  judge.  You'll 
find  Pat  changed  for  the  better,  sir.  Oh!  I've 
got  a  letter  for  you.  She  gave  it  to  me  the  last 
thing — with  her  fondest  love.  Here  you  are!" 
He  produced  a  long  envelope  addressed  to  her 
father  in  Patricia's  familiar  writing — it  was  the 
first  letter  Newton  Lydig  had  received  from  his 
daughter  since  the  night  of  her  elopement. 

Then  came  the  shattering  news,  that  penitent 
but  inexorable  letter  in  which  Patricia  notified  her 
father  and  her  husband  that  before  Stanley  re- 


"YOUR  UNRULY  PAT"  143 

turned  to  their  little  Montecito  home  she  would 
have  left  for  New  York  to  earn  her  own  living! 
The  irony  of  it !  Just  when  the  eager  lover  was 
preparing  the  surprise  that  was  to  make  his  be- 
loved radiant!  Too  late! 

In  a  separate  note  to  Stan,  enclosed  in  the 
other,  she  begged  him  to  forgive  her,  but  not  fol- 
low her  or  try  to  see  her  or  force  her  to  come  back 
to  him.  Then,  woman-like,  after  assuring  him 
that  it  would  be  quite  useless  and  disastrous  for 
him  to  interfere  with  her  purposes,  she  added  this 
exasperatingly  emotional  postscript: 

"There  are  some  moments,  Stan  .  .  .  some 
moments  that  we  have  shared  .  .  .  you  remem- 
ber? Do  not  let  them  fade.  Do  not  let  any  one 
make  you  forget  your  unruly  Pat." 


PART  TWO— AWAKENED 


CHAPTER  I 

PIERRE 

"What  a  dark  world — who  knows? — 
Ours  to  inhabit  is  ! 
One  touch,  and  what  a  strange 
Glory  might  burst  on  us, 
What  a  hid  universe !" 

ONE  of  the  tragedies  in  women's  lives  is  that 
marriage  does  not  always  bring  full  awakening. 
Often  the  profoundest  depths  of  a  woman's  nature 
are  not  stirred  for  years  after  a  life-mate  has 
been  chosen.  In  some  cases,  alas !  they  are  never 
stirred;  or  again,  by  a  man  other  than  the  life- 
mate,  as  Patricia  was  fated  to  know.  Thus  far 
her  life  had  been  that  of  a  spoiled  child;  a  sel- 
fish, impulsive,  forceful  young  woman;  not  a  real 
woman,  as  she  was  now  to  realize. 

We  may  pass  over  the  first  four  months  that 
Patricia  spent  in  New  York — four  months  of 
liberty!  No  need  to  detail  the  struggles,  humili- 
ations, deprivations  that  she  endured  (gladly  on 

147 


i48  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

the  whole!)  as  the  price  she  paid.  In  the  end 
her  talents  and  power  of  will  conquered,  and  she 
found  herself,  after  a  few  weeks,  earning  her  own 
living,  as  she  had  dreamed  of  doing,  without  be- 
ing beholden  for  a  penny  to  any  man,  whether 
husband  or  father.  To  tide  her  over  the  first 
necessitous  period,  Patsy  borrowed  several  hun- 
dred dollars  from  skeptical  but  generous  Margot, 
being  resolved  at  least  to  accept  no  more  mas- 
culine favors. 

Liberty ! 

If  the  truth  must  be  told,  this  proved,  on  at- 
tainment, to  be  a  rather  dreary,  gray-tinged  thing, 
for  here  was  this  indolent,  luxury-loving  young 
woman,  dwelling  in  a  single  darkish  room  (with 
no  private  bath!)  in  a  New  York  boarding  house 
up  near  Columbia.  And  caged  from  nine  to  five 
in  a  dingy  building  on  Fourth  Avenue  where  she 
dashed  off  little  fashion  articles  for  an  advertis- 
ing concern.  At  thirty-five  dollars  a  week. 

Such  a  thing  is  pride  1 

As  for  the  compensations  of  her  new  estate, 
these  did  not  immediately  appear,  and  Patricia 
suffered  from  loneliness  and  disillusionment  (but 
would  have  died  rather  than  admit  it)  through 
many  dragging  weeks. 

Then  suddenly  came  the  burst  of  glory,  the  glint 
of  wings — the  man! 


PIERRE  149 

Never  would  she  forget  that  day  of  their  first 
meeting.  Every  detail  of  it  was  graven  on  her 
memory.  It  was  on  one  of  those  golden  Saturday 
afternoons  with  their  precious  free  hours  that 
she  had  only  learned  to  appreciate  since  she  be- 
came a  breadwinner.  With  a  sigh  of  relief 
Patricia  had  closed  her  desk,  closed  the  door  of 
her  office,  shot  down  seventeen  flights  in  the  eleva- 
tor, and  made  her  way  over  to  the  Avenue,  her 
gracious  and  beloved  Fifth  Avenue. 

The  shop  windows  drew  her  like  magnets,  as 
of  yore,  only  now  window-shopping  was  her  limit. 
She  pored  over  their  contents,  luxurious  soft  furs, 
exquisite  cobwebby  lingerie,  chic  little  hats — each 
in  turn  held  her  attention.  And  oddly  mingled 
with  a  glow  of  pride  in  her  hardly-earned  free- 
dom was  a  pang  of  self-pity  as  she  watched  other 
women  alight  from  their  limousines  and  sail  care- 
lessly past  her — as  purchasers ! 

A  voice  behind  her  made  her  turn  sharply,  she 
knew  those  lilting  tones  of  that  voice,  high,  bird- 
like :  "Patricia !" 

She  was  looking  into  the  glowing  face  of  her 
old  friend,  Janice  King,  now  Mrs.  Shephard  Clare- 
mont.  Janice  was  the  daughter  of  an  old  New 
York  family;  one  of  those  families  that  lift  their 
chin  ever  so  slightly,  and,  in  well-bred  voices  seem 
to  say  that  the  really  nice  people  don't  go  in  for 


i5o  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

the  things  that  these  wild  young  creatures  of  our 
supposedly  Smart  Set  indulge  in  ... 

But  Janice  herself  was  lovable,  the  kindest  and 
blithest  of  God's  creatures.  It  was  not  her  fault 
that  she  had  been  held  up  as  a  shining  example 
from  babyhood.  Pat  liked  her  too  well  to  hate 
her,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  difference  of  the 
poles  lay  between  them  temperamentally — which 
proves  genuine  affection. 

"Where  shall  we  go  to  luncheon?"  the  gay 
voice  asked  with  its  pleasing  staccatos,  as  Janice 
hurried  her  friend  into  her  snug  little  motor. 

"Anywhere." 

They  drove  to  Louis  Sherry's  tea-room  at  58th 
Street,  filled  with  association  for  Patricia,  since 
the  old  Lydig  home  on  Park  Avenue  was  just 
around  the  corner. 

"Now  tell  me  everything,"  sighed  Janice,  con- 
tentedly, after  she  had  ordered.  "I  have  a  gen- 
eral idea  of  your  mad  career  since  you  left  us 
(your  mother  wrote  to  mine)  but  .  .  ."  she  broke 
off  with  that  penetrating  glance  that  invariably 
left  Patricia  wondering  why  Janice  loved  her  when 
she  so  thoroughly  disapproved  of  her.  "Oh! 
Pat,"  she  breathed,  "what  a  girl  you  are!  To 
elope — and  run  away  again,  all  within  a  year! 
Come,  tell  me  about  it.  Your  husband — what 
is  he  like?" 


PIERRE  151 

Then,  wide-eyed,  she  listened  to  the  story,  and 
could  scarcely  believe  her  ears  when  Pat  came  to 
her  present  phase  as  an  humble  toiler,  and 
sketched  in  her  boarding-house — the  horror  of  its 
marble-hailed  entrance,  its  hideous  carved  ebony 
table,  its  encumbering  chairs  wherein  no  human 
could  find  comfort;  also  the  twilight  gloom  of  its 
halls,  where  one  groped  for  the  key-hole  with 
trained,  experimenting  fingers.  Oh !  the  dinginess 
of  it!  The  impertinent  darkey  at  the  elevator 
and  telephone  switchboard,  the  dining-room,  pre- 
sided over  by  that  shrewd  and  heroically  corseted 
master-piece  of  marceled  importance  whom  Pat 
had  christened  the  Super-dreadnaught,  her  land- 
lady. 

"But  Patricia — how  could  you !  Why  ostra- 
cize yourself?  Are  you  absolutely — crazy?" 

"Perhaps." 

The  keen,  absorbed  interest  in  Janice's  face 
died  out;  in  its  place  came  a  troubled  incredulous 
expression  bordering  on  pity. 

u  "But  .  .  .  after  you  were  married  .  .  .  surely 
.  .  .  why  the  intimacy,  the  sweetness  ...  I 
don't  understand  .  .  ." 

"No,  you  couldn't.  You'd  never  understand 
the  desire  a  girl  has  to  earn  her  own  living — the 
desire  I  have." 

Janice  shrugged  noncommittally.     Money,   of 


1 52  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

course,  could  not  interest  her.  She  had  plenty  of 
it — always  had  had. 

"Surely,  you're  not  counting  on  making  a  for- 
tune, Pat,"  she  smiled,  and  at  this  her  friend's 
pride  flared. 

"I  don't  know.  Just  now  my  thirty-five  dol- 
lars a  week  is  a  fortune  to  me.  At  any  rate  it's 
mine  through  my  own  efforts." 

Again  the  quizzical,  half-pitying  look. 

"But  wifehood,  motherhood — are  they  mean- 
ingless to  you,  Pat?" 

Patricia  blushed  under  the  expression  of  those 
eyes  that  stabbed  with  their  sweetness.  She  knew 
Janice  was  thinking  of  her  six  months'  old  baby, 
she  had  told  her  about  him  almost  at  once,  and 
of  her  good-natured,  mediocre  husband,  Shephard 
Claremont,  a  little  bald,  thin  person  with  an  irri- 
tating, nervous  cough.  And  Pat  gave  back  her 
pity  with  a  vengeance.  No  shining  river  of  ad- 
venture for  Janice — only  a  placid,  safe  little  pond, 
strewn  with  a  few  pretty  water  lilies  and  set  about 
with  graceful,  weeping  willows. 

"You  didn't  love  your  husband,  that's  certain," 
Janice  concluded. 

"I  was  attracted  to  him,"  Patricia  defended. 
"He's  fine,  Janice,  really  big  and  fine,  better  than 
I  am  .  .  .  only  .  .  .  well,  it  wasn't  right  for  me 
to  stay  with  him,  under  the  circumstances." 


PIERRE  153 

Behind  Janice's  reserve  could  be  felt  her  mental 
comment,  "Pat  will  settle  down  and  be  all  right 
when  she  has  a  baby  of  her  own."  That  used  to 
be  the  diagnosis  of  the  old  doctor,  "Tut,  tut,  Mrs. 
Lydig,  Patricia  will  be  all  right  when  she  is  mar- 
ried and  has  some  babies,"  which  always  com- 
forted her  mother  and  lashed  Patricia  to  fury. 

Presently  they  said  good-by,  as  Janice  was  due 
early  at  her  apartment  by  reason  of  Shephard, 
Jr.,  and  was  full  of  agitations  over  not  arriving  on 
time.  Patricia  took  a  bus  and  rode  down  as  far 
as  Madison  Square,  charming  in  the  purple  bloom 
of  an  early  winter  twilight.  The  great  space  was 
restful  to  her  nerves,  the  trees,  shrubs,  and  the 
first  faint  street  lights  partook  of  the  mysterious 
beauty  of  the  hour.  She  felt  a  craving  for  some- 
thing good  to  read,  something  that  would  lift  her 
out  of  this  dull  stretch,  and  went  into  Brentano's — 
never  would  she  speak  that  name  again  without  a 
quickening  of  the  heart,  for  it  was  there  that  .  .  . 

She  walked  into  the  shop,  searched  hurriedly 
up  and  down  the  aisles  (it  was  within  half  hour 
-of  closing  time)  and  finally  paused  before  a  row 
of  books  that  appealed.  A  title  caught  her  eye 
and  she  laid  her  hand  eagerly  upon  it;  simul- 
taneously another  hand  reached  for  it.  Their 
fingers  touched.  A  shock,  definite,  amazing! 
Pat  did  not  stir,  did  not  look  up  for  what  seemed 


i54  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

an  unbelievably  long  time.  Then,  breathless  with 
expectancy,  she  lifted  her  eyes. 

Out  of  an  extraordinarily  sensitive  face,  gray 
eyes  looked  at  her,  sought  her  out,  the  sum  of 
her.  A  slim,  sensitive  face  it  was,  flooded  with 
such  light  and  understanding  that  her  eyes  seemed 
drawn  there  to  stay.  His  short  black  mustache 
contributed  to  her  impression  that  he  must  be  a 
foreigner,  even  before  she  noticed  the  blue  of  his 
resplendent  French  uniform. 

//  was  incredible  that  she  did  not  know  him! 
Incredible  that  she  could  not  speak  to  him! 

After  a  few  seconds,  a  woman  came  up  from 
behind  and  he  turned  to  her.  Patricia  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  woman's  face  and  her  heart  lifted 
magically,  then  sank  with  a  miserable  apprehen- 
sion. It  was  Margot! 

"Pat  .  .  .  what  luck!  I've  meant  to  hunt  you 
up  ever  since  I  came  home,  last  week,  but  .  .  ." 

"Did — did  your  husband  come  with  you?" 

"Oh,  yes.     Good  old  Don!"     She   shrugged. 

"Then—?" 

"Oh,  he's  a  friend — an  old  friend  of  the  fam- 
ily— from  France."  She  half  turned,  but  Pat 
tugged  at  her  sleeve,  scarcely  realizing  that  she 
whispered,  "Don't  tell  him — please — " 

Margot's  keen,  worldly-wise  black  eyes 
twinkled,  then  grew  shrewd. 


PIERRE  155 

"Pat! — not  you!  Flirting — already!  Pierre!" 
she  called. 

Once  more  those  intent  gray  eyes  were  search- 
ing Patricia's.  Margot's  voice  came  as  from  a 
great  distance,  gay,  careless  .  .  . 

"Oh,  Capitaine  Boissard,  meet  my  friend,  Mrs. 
Creighton,  an  old  school  chum;"  then,  interpreting 
the  pleading  of  Pat's  eyes,  she  added  mischie- 
vously: "Prenez-guard — you  know  how  danger- 
ous these  pretty  young  widows  are." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   DEPTHS  ARE   STIRRED 

*.  .  .  Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken ;  .  .  ." 

FATE  surely  had  a  finger  in  this  business,  for 
they  met  again,  these  two,  the  very  next  day;  in 
all  that  measureless,  boundless  city  of  New  York 
they  met  again — accidentally. 

Patricia  was  on  her  way  home  from  her  work, 
in  the  late  afternoon.  A  soft  rain  was  falling. 
Street  lights  gleamed  like  pale  flowers  through 
the  mist;  freshly-washed  shrubs  and  trees  and  the 
wet  earth  yielded  their  fragrance  as  she  got  off 
the  bus  and  walked  up  Morningside  Drive.  The 
high  black  iron  fence  encircling  L'Eglise  de  Notre 
Dame  stood  out  distinctly,  its  individual  spikes 
glistening  with  rain  drops.  Through  the  widely- 
flung  gates  she  caught  the  radiance  of  the  altar, 
alight  with  hundreds  of  hopefully  gleaming  tapers. 
There  was  an  atmosphere  of  security  and  comfort 
here,  a  suggestion  of  peace.  She  hesitated  at  the 
gateway  and,  as  she  looked,  Capitaine  Boissard 

156 


THE  DEPTHS  ARE  STIRRED      157 

came  out,  his  blue  overcoat  and  the  red  and  gold 
of  his  cap  cutting  assertively  into  the  luminous 
grayness.  Her  heart  leaped  as  their  eyes  met  and 
she  realized  that  the  thought  of  him  had  never 
left  her  since  that  first  glance  the  day  before. 
She  had  reproached  herself  for  letting  him  think 
her  a  widow.  Now  she  understood  why  she  had 
done  this.  She  must  have  had  a  subconscious 
knowledge  that  he  was  a  Catholic — an  ardent 
one  .  .  . 

The  rain  beat  in  a  merry,  resonant  patter  on 
the  taut  silk  of  her  umbrella  as  he  came  up  to  her. 
"Oh — you!"  he  exclaimed,  "What  a  good  omen 
to  meet  you  here!  I  called  on  you  this  after- 
noon." 

Words  deserted  her.  There  were  pulses  in 
her  throat  that  throbbed  excitedly.  What  an 
extraordinary  face  he  had !  She  was  too  happy — 
it  frightened  her.  And  that  little  way  he  had  of 
laughing  under  his  breath,  so  amused  and  inter- 
ested! His  intonations  and  French  rs  were  de- 
licious— quaint,  different.  He  was  utterly  unlike 
any  one  Patricia  had  ever  known. 

"You  came  to  see  me  this  afternoon?"  she 
managed  at  last,  "but,  you  see,  I'm  a  worker,  no: 
a  lady  of  leisure,  Capitaine." 

"A  worker?" 

"Yes.     Only  this  afternoon  I  fell  into  a  v,-o  . 


I58  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

derful  new  position,  head  of  the  Art  Department 
on  a  Millinery  Trade's  Review.  I'm  feeling 
mighty  proud  of  myself." 

"Ah  .  .  .  that  is  ver-ry  interesting.  You 
must  tell  me  more  about  it.  You  American 
women  .  .  .  you  are  remarkable!  To  live 
alone  .  .  .  you  do  live  alone?" 

She  nodded. 

"You  were  going  into  the  church,"  he  added. 
"I  am  so  hap-py — you,  too,  are  a  Catholic?" 

She  woke  with  a  start. 

"Oh,  no!"  she  hastened — "not  a  Catholic,  no, 
no!" 

"No?" 

"No,  I  am  not  religious,"  she  said  uncomfort- 
ably. 

He  studied  her  face  intently,  thoughtfully,  while 
she  admired  his  profile — thin,  aquiline,  aristo- 
cratic. 

"But  you  are  religious,  ve-ry  religious,"  he  pro- 
tested confidently.  "You  do  not  know  it.  You 
love  beauty  keenly.  In  pictures,  books,  nature. 
And  religion  makes  our  lives  beautiful.  Come! 
To  her  amazement  she  made  no  protest,  but  en- 
tered the  church  with  him  and  they  knelt  together. 
The  gray  evening  faintly  illumined  the  windows, 
but  the  altar  glowed,  warm  and  vital.  She  felt 
his  fingers  close  on  her  arm;  tears  gathered  and 


THE  DEPTHS  ARE  STIRRED      159 

slipped  down  her  cheeks;  but  her  heart  felt  quiet 
as  a  summer  lake. 

Once  outside  he  bent  down  to  her  and,  half- 
teasingly,  half-endearingly,  whispered: 

"Pat-r-ricia  I" 

She  did  not  remonstrate  and  they  began  to 
laugh  like  children.  At  her  door  he  left  her  with 
a  warning  to  be  ready  in  a  couple  of  hours.  He 
was  going  to  take  her  to  dinner. 


II 


There  followed  for  Patricia  a  deliriously  happy 
month,  yet  one  of  torturing  deception  and  self- 
deception,  wherein  she  found  each  day  some  new 
and  adequate  reason  for  not  confessing  to  Pierre 
that  she  was  a  married  woman.  No  better  record 
of  events  and  emotions  during  this  period  of  soul 
awakening  could  be  given  than  that  taken  from 
her  diary: 

Friday  night. 

I  must  not  keep  up  this  deception  with  Pierre — 
already  he  is  Pierre  to  me.  I  must  tell  him  I  am 
a  married  woman.  I  did  not  mean  to  mislead 
him.  Margot  was  so  quick  to  act  on  a  mere  im- 
pulse of  mine.  After  a  while  I'll  tell  him.  Cer- 
tainly— after  awhile.  I'll  tell  him  when  I'm  a 


160  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

little  surer  ...  of  what?  Why,  that  he  will 
forgive  my  deception.  No,  no,  Pat!  You're 
lying  to  yourself.  You  mean  to  wait  until  you 
are  sure  that  he  loves  you  as  you  want  him  to  love 
you,  as  you,  yourself,  have  come  to  love  him. 

Saturday. 

Patricia,  my  poor  child!  What  have  you 
done?  You  must  tell  Pierre  the  truth.  You  are 
in  the  light,  it  is  dazzling,  blinding,  but  after  it 
will  come  grayness! 

Sunday. 

Pierre  hates  lipsticks  and  rouge.  We  went 
shopping  yesterday  afternoon  for  some  things  to 
take  back,  to  his  sister  in  France.  I  hung  over 
a  case  of  adorable  chased  gold  vanity  cases,  but 
when  I  called  his  attention  to  them,  I  sensed  his 
disapproval.  His  tone  was  slightly  contemptu- 
ous. 

"It  would  be  an  insult  to  give  a  nice  French 
girl  such  a  gift,"  he  said. 

The  French  clerks  who  waited  on  us  were 
frankly  delighted  with  us  both.  They  beamed 
and  caressed  us  with  voice  and  eyes,  and  defer- 
entially called  me  Madame!  I  blushed,  my  heart 
lifting,  and  Pierre  furtively  pressed  my  hand. 

"I  am  v-er-ry  pr-roud,"  he  whispered. 


THE  DEPTHS  ARE  STIRRED      161 

Joy  and  fear  struggled  in  my  heart.  I  will  tell 
him  soon.  I  must.  I  know  he  cares.  I  am 
sure. 

Monday. 
Happy,  so  happy  .  .  . 

Tuesday. 

Evidently  Pierre  and  Margot  have  not  dis- 
cussed me.  I  saw  Margot  to-day  and  she  did  not 
seem  to  know  that  I  have  been  meeting  Pierre  .  .  . 

When  I  am  with  him  I  feel  that  we  are  alone, 
even  in  the  heart  of  a  crowd.  We  have  found 
a  way  of  walking  hand  in  hand  without  detection ! 
His  military  overcoat  has  an  immense  pocket  into 
which  we  can  both  slip  our  hands,  his  covering 
mine  .  .  .  such  a  little  thing  but  intimate,  poig- 
nantly sweet. 

Wednesday  night. 

Pierre  has  been  called  to  Canada  on  a  mission 
-connected  with  the  recruiting  of  Poles.  He  tele- 
phoned me  to  meet  him  at  the  Metropolitan  Gal- 
lery at  four  o'clock.  He  was  pacing  up  and  down 
in  front  of  the  huge  Museum  as  I  got  off  the  bus, 
the  wind  whipping  his  long  overcoat  about  his 
high  brown-laced  boots. 

The  air  had  that  cloudy  effect  that  suggests 


162  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

snow;  it  was  snappy,  invigorating.  The  thought 
of  our  temporary  parting  kept  me  silent,  but  drew 
us  subtly  closer.  His  imperative  eyes  frightened 
me.  I  began  a  little  nonsensical  running  conver- 
sation about  my  experiences  in  the  office  and 
showed  him  some  highly  colored  poster  girls  ready 
for  the  next  issue  of  our  magazine.  He  laughed 
under  his  breath,  amused,  interested,  but  I  felt 
him  brush  all  that  aside  and  go  on  searching  the 
mind  and  heart  of  me. 

We  fenced,  keeping  each  other  at  a  distance, 
and  yet  were  drawn  irresistibly  nearer  and  nearer. 
We  passed  through  the  rooms  examining  various 
paintings.  As  a  connoisseur,  he  listened  to  me 
deferentially,  nodding  his  head. 

"Ah — yes — you  know." 

We  paused  before  a  group  of  Sorollas — our 
eyes  drawn  to  his  "Bathers."  The  hint  of  beach, 
the  jolly  girl,  brown  and  radiant,  the  sunshine 
caught  in  the  white  sail  that  the  youth  holds  about 
her,  then  the  flash  of  the  waves  in  the  background  1 
Light,  youth,  the  seal 

I  became  conscious  that  our  shoulders  were 
close,  our  hands  clasped.  My  throat  ached  with 
emotion.  Our  eyes  met.  Mine  filled.  My  lips 
trembled. 

"Ah — dea-r  girl,"  he  whispered,"beauty  is  life 
itself  to  you." 


THE  DEPTHS  ARE  STIRRED      163 

Outside  it  had  commenced  to  snow,  fine  pow- 
dery snow  that  blurred  and  obscured  everything. 
People  on  the  avenue  were  black  specks  blown 
through  whirling  whiteness.  We  stood  in  an  al- 
cove, ostensibly  watching,  but  in  reality  absorbed 
in  this  throbbing  unrecognized  drama  between  us. 

"Why,  look,"  I  cried  childishly,  "a  button 
gone!" 

"I  know,"  he  smiled,  his  hand  unconsciously 
reaching  for  the  top  button  of  his  overcoat.  I 
thought  perhaps  you  would — sew  one  on  for  me?" 

A  lightning  shot  of  remembrance  came  to  me. 
Stan — and  his  buttons!  But  it  did  not  check  the 
warm  answer  of  my  heart! 

"Of  course,  if  you  can  find  one  of  those  odd 
blue  military  buttons." 

"If  not  .  .  .  could  you  not  move  one  .  .  .  ?" 

Then — what  I  had  dreaded  and  longed  for — 
happened.  His  arms  closed  hungrily  round  me. 
I  tried  to  speak,  to  protest,  struggle  away  from 
him,  but  I  could  not.  My  lips  lifted  naturally 
to  his. 

That  such  sweetness  could  be  in  the  world! 
It  was  all  inexpressibly  lovely  things  merged, 
cypress  and  eucalyptus  trees  outlined  against  blaz- 
ing sunsets,  the  hush  of  twilight  over  still  waters, 
the  lilting  tones  of  a  child — the  ache  of  beauty 
that  is  half  pleasure,  half  pain. 


1 64  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

We  were  very  silent  the  rest  of  the  evening. 
He  talked  a  little  of  France,  of  his  home,  its  gar- 
dens. ...  At  eleven  we  went  to  the  station,  but 
he  did  not  kiss  me  again.  He  put  me  in  a  taxi, 
closed  the  door  and  stood  waving  good-by. 

Saturday. 

I  hurried  home  from  the  office  to  see  if  there 
was  any  mail.  Letters  have  become  of  amazing 
importance  to  me.  One  from  father  that  set  my 
conscience  on  fire  with  remorse.  And  one  from 
Stan.  Good,  kind  Stan!  I  know  now  what  he 
must  have  felt  for  me,  evidently  still  feels.  I 
am  sorry,  bitterly  self-reproachful;  but  I  cannot 
give  up  Pierre.  Nothing  can  take  him  from  me. 
He  belongs  to  me.  He  is  my  rightful  mate. 
Nothing  can  separate  us.  Creed?  No,  certainly 
not.  He  has  lived  in  the  trenches.  Creeds  did 
not  matter  there. 

Monday. 

A  letter  from  Pierre.  I  sat  down  on  my  couch 
and  held  the  large  white  square  for  a  moment, 
studying  the  fine,  print-like  writing  before  opening 
it.  It  was  exquisitely  restrained,  almost  disap- 
pointingly so,  but  the  fragrance  of  our  feeling  for 
each  other  hung  indefinitely  about  it. 

"Why,"  he  asked,  "must  our  souls,  that  think 


THE  DEPTHS  ARE  STIRRED      165 

together,  be  separated  by  this  small  thing,  a 
breath,  a  nothing,  yet  indispensable — the  spoken 
word?  .  .  ." 

Then  came  his  stabbing  news.  Soon,  very 
soon,  he  was  to  sail  home  to  France !  The  ache 
at  my  heart  made  it  impossible  for  me  to  read 
further  for  some  moments.  He  was  to  come  back 
to  New  York  for  ten  days  or  so  before  sailing. 

Wednesday. 

Pierre  is  back.  I  did  not  know  anything  could 
thrill  me  as  did  the  sound  of  his  voice  over  the 
wire.  Our  separation  has  seemed  endless.  We 
had  a  gay  dinner  at  our  favorite  little  French 
restaurant,  Forty-eighth  Street,  west  of  Sixth  Ave- 
nue. There  is  a  charming  intime  air  about  the 
place,  gayety,  color,  movement.  But  the  words 
of  a  French  song  echo  in  my  ears: 

"Mais  viendra  le  jour  des  adieux, 

Car  il  faut  que  les  femmes  pleurent 
Et  que  les  hommes  curieux 

Tentent  les  horizons  que  leurent." 

Coming  home  in  the  car  he  put  his  arm  about 
me,  kissed  my  eyes,  lips,  hair.  I  protested 
faintly,  drew  away,  trying  to  explain  that  I  was 
an  unhappy,  wicked  wife,  but  ended  by  creeping 
closer  to  him  while  I  drank  in  his  words: 


166  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

"Ah — cher-ie,  cher-ie,  I  have  waited  for  you 
all  my  life." 

Saturday. 

Pierre  talked  to  me  of  his  religion  this  evening. 
He  never  antagonizes,  is  always  tactful  and  in- 
tuitive. 

"I  know,  I  understand  something  of  what  you 
feel,  Pierre,"  I  conceded,  "the  aesthetic  side  of 
your  church  appeals  to  me,  too, 

'The  storied  windows  richly  dight 
Casting  a  dim,  religious  light/ 

the  silence,  the  candles  ...  all  the  restful  beauty 
of  it.  But  there  are  other  aspects,  that  seem 
medieval — to  me,  I  say.  Why  not  let  me  be  re- 
ligious in  my  own  way?" 

Our  conversation  turned  into  other  fields. 
Pierre  touched  upon  a  possible  metier  for  himself 
here  in  America.  I  was  amazed!  He  is  well 
past  thirty,  yet  he  has  done  nothing  but  write  a 
few  polished  French  verses  for  various  conserva- 
tive papers  in  Paris,  though,  of  course,  he  served 
bravely  in  the  war.  He  has  leaned  upon  his 
family,  has  studied,  read,  cultivated  the  arts — 
and  himself.  He  has  become  the  delightful  com- 
panion that  I  have  always  wanted,  but  ...  an 


THE  DEPTHS  ARE  STIRRED      167 

uneasy  comparison  insinuated  itself  into  my  mind. 
While  Stan  was  assuming  his  father's  debts,  set- 
ting aside  his  own  desires  and  working  at  a  hated 
task,  Pierre  was  accepting  the  support  of  his 
parents.  Stan  is  crude  and  unfinished.  Pierre  is 
perfection.  But  .  .  .  after  all  is  love  based  on 
worthiness  ? 

Sunday. 

Our  precious  days  are  slipping  by.  Pierre  has 
not  spoken  any  binding  word  of  love,  but  content 
is  in  my  heart.  We  can  never  be  separated. 
He  will  go  back  to  France  for  six  or  seven  weeks, 
then  he  will  return  to  me.  He  belongs  to  me. 

Monday. 

Pierre  grew  heated  on  the  subject  of  the  wide- 
spread contempt  of  parental  authority  in  America. 
In  contrast  he  pictured  the  almost  worshipful 
regard  of  young  people  in  France  for  their  parents. 
I  suppose  we  go  to  one  extreme,  while  they  go 
to  the  other. 

Tuesday. 

In  one  corner  of  my  heart  I  have  an  oppres- 
sing sense  of  guilt.  My  happiness  is  full  and 
brimming,  but — am  I  not  like  a  thief  with  his 


1 68  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

stolen  jewel?  Why  is  life  such  a  bully?  I  can't 
tell  Pierre  about  Stan  and  risk  his  love,  I  simply 
cannot.  The  hours  and  days  pass  .  .  . 

Wednesday. 

Nothing  matters  now.  Pierre  has  spoken.  It 
was  last  evening.  I  have  heard  him  say  what 
I  have  longed  to  hear.  My  heart  sings,  sings! 
He  seemed  intensely  excited  when  he  came  for  me. 
His  eyes  fairly  blazed.  I  had  put  on  a  simple 
rose  georgette  gown,  as  we  were  to  dance  after 
our  dinner,  and  he  had  sent  me  three  perfect  pink 
rose-buds,  long  stemmed,  delicate,  fragrant.  I 
was  pinning  them  on  as  I  came  out  of  the  elevator 
and  my  eyes  fell  under  his  ardent  gaze. 

Once  in  the  taxi  and  speeding  out  the  Drive, 
Pierre  drew  me  back  into  his  arms  without  speak- 
ing. I  could  feel  his  heart  beat.  Mine  was  rac- 
ing as  excitedly  as  his.  My  arms  went  up  about 
his  neck  quite  shamelessly,  my  cheek  rested  against 
his  shoulder. 

"Ah — che-rie,"  he  whispered,  "I  don't  need 
to  tell  you — already  I  have  said  it  ...  in  many 
ways.  You  have  understood  ...  I  love  you. 
I  want  you  with  me  always." 

I  began  to  cry  then,  softly,  happily.  His  hands 
smoothed  my  hair,  caressed  me  with  a  tenderness 
that  hurt. 


THE  DEPTHS  ARE  STIRRED      169 

How  foolish,  absurd,  to  think  that  the  most 
modern  of  modern  flappers,  seemingly  hard,  cold, 
calculating,  is  not  the  same  eternal  primitive  Eve 
when  touched  by  the  magical  and  revealing  power 
of  genuine  love!  I  listened  to  his  old,  old  story 
of  the  tranquil  fireside.  I  could  see  him  at  the 
piano,  the  firelight  touching  his  hands,  lingering 
on  his  face,  could  picture  myself  waiting  on  him, 
loving  him.  I  trembled  as  he  spoke  ...  of 
children  .  .  .  Yes,  at  heart  we  women  are  all 
alike  .  .  .  But  I  could  not  tell  him! 

Sunday. 

Pierre  has  gone.  I  cannot  believe  it  ... 
Early  this  morning  his  great  ship  lifted  anchor 
and  sailed  away,  taking  all  that  I  love  best  in  the 
world.  How  can  I  wait  for  his  return?  I  can 
feel  his  kisses  burning  on  either  cheek,  the  little 
conventional  station  kisses  ...  I  could  not  go  to 
the  boat  .  .  .  And  I  could  not  tell  him  about 
Stan! 

A  few  more  weeks  his  country  claims  him, 
then  he  will  be  demobilized  and  come  sailing  back 
to  me. 

•  •••••• 

I  have  telegraphed  father  to  come  on  at  once. 
I  want  to  tell  him  the  whole  story  before  I  break 


I7o  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

the  news  to  Stan.  Father  will  help  me  to  do  what 
is  necessary.  Poor  Stan!  I  have  treated  him 
abominably  and  the  sooner  he  is  rid  of  me  the 
better.  Some  other  woman  can  make  him  happy. 
As  for  me — in  my  heart  I  am  already  the  wife 
of  Pierre ! 

A  week  later. 

When  I  came  home  from  work  to-night  I  found 
— father.  Although  I  was  expecting  him  and 
wanted  him,  it  seems  incredible  that  he  is  actually 
here.  So  many  things  have  happened  since  I  said 
good-by  to  him,  that  night  of  my  elopement  with 
Stan. 

I  went  to  him  with  a  rush  of  emotion  and  kissed 
him  impetuously;  but  almost  immediately  felt  that 
old  instinctive  barrier  creeping  between  us.  I 
could  not  bring  myself  to  tell  him  .  .  .  what  must 
be  told.  I  asked  about  mother  and  learned  that 
she  has  been  ill  for  months.  In  her  usual  thought- 
ful, unselfish  way  she  had  kept  this  back  in  her 
letters,  and  I  felt  like  a  guilty  thing.  Remorse 
filled  my  heart  and  I  burst  into  tears.  Father 
was  dear  and  kind.  He  tried  to  comfort  me, 
and  put  aside  all  his  old  authoritative  ways. 
When  I  asked  him  to  wait  until  to-morrow  before 
our  serious  talk  he  agreed  tenderly. 

"I'll  come  and  take  you  to  luncheon,"  he  said, 


THE  DEPTHS  ARE  STIRRED      171 

then  he  went  on  to  tell  me  that  he  and  mother 
were  proud  of  the  success  I  had  had  in  my  work. 
My  heart  was  full  of  gratitude.  What  wonder- 
ful friends  we  might  have  been  all  these  years, 
if  we  could  only  have  been  a  little  more  human 
and  natural  with  one  another! 

Later. 

I  have  thought  over  the  whole  situation.  I  can- 
not give  up  Pierre.  There  is  something  in  the 
eyes  of  older  people,  an  elusive  expression  that 
urges  me  to  gather  quickly  all  the  beauty  and 
happiness  life  puts  within  my  reach.  I  have 
caught  that  look  again  and  again  of  late — 
in  the  eyes  of  rich  old  women  riding  in  lux- 
urious motors,  in  the  eyes  of  tired  mothers 
hanging  to  straps  in  the  subway,  in  the  eyes  of 
street-sweepers,  office  workers,  school  teachers 
...  A  discouraged  baffled  look,  as  if  life  had 
evaded  them,  its  silver  stream  sweeping  far  afield 
offering  only  a  tantalizing  glimpse  of  what  might 
have  been  theirs.  I  saw  that  look  to-night  in 
father's  eyes! 

No,  I  cannot  give  up  Pierre.  Nothing  can 
make  me  give  him  up. 

Tuesday. 
Father  and  I  had  luncheon  together  and  at  last 


i72  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

I  told  him  everything,  little  by  little.  It  was  the 
hardest  thing  I  ever  did.  As  he  listened  my 
heart  ached  for  him.  He  did  not  storm  at  me,  or 
reproach  me,  he  seemed  to  respect  my  sincerity 
and  to  understand  what  has  happened;  but  he  was 
sad — disappointed,  helpless  before  this  new  dis- 
aster that  I  was  contemplating — divorce! 

He  promised  to  help  me,  however,  to  stand 
by  me,  to  do  all  that  he  could — he  would  go 
over  the  whole  situation  with  Stanley  as  soon  as 
he  arrived. 

"Stanley?"  I  cried.  "He  isn't  coming,  is  he? 
I  wired  you  I  didn't  want  him  to  come." 

"I  know,  dear,  I  persuaded  him  not  to,  after 
a  lot  of  argument,"  answered  Father;  "but  he 
must  have  changed  his  mind.  There  was  a  tele- 
gram from  him  at  the  hotel.  Here!" 

He  handed  me  this  curt,  ominous  message : 

"Am  leaving  to-night.  Have  followed  your 
advice  long  enough.  Propose  to  manage  this  af- 
fair myself.  Stanley." 


CHAPTER  III 

STANLEY  ASSERTS  HIMSELF 

IN  the  flow  of  everyday  happenings  Stanley 
Creighton  was  susceptible  to  doubts  and  waver- 
ings like  other  men  and,  being  modest  about  him- 
self, he  knew  what  it  was  to  fall  into  fits  of  dis- 
couragement when  he  was  conscious  of  his  own 
inferiorities,  his  rough  ways,  his  lack  of  glib  ad- 
justability; and  became  uncertain  as  to  the  course 
that  he  ought  to  pursue.  At  such  times  he  was 
easily  influenced  by  others  whom  he  loved  and 
respected,  as  he  had  been  influenced  by  Patricia 
and  by  her  father;  but  let  disaster  come  or  some 
sudden  peril  that  forced  him  to  act  swiftly  and 
at  once  he  was  a  different  man.  He  was  like  an 
experienced  navigator  lounging  on  the  deck  of  a 
ship  until  the  storm  breaks,  whereupon  in  a  twin- 
kling he  asserts  himself,  brushing  aside  incompe- 
tents, and  takes  command.  Stanley  had  now  as- 
serted himself. 

As   his   train   rushed   along  he   thought  back 
through  the  months  to  that  miserable  time  when 

173 


i74  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

Patricia  had  left  him.  After  the  immediate  hurt 
to  his  pride  had  calmed  a  little  his  one  thought 
had  been  to  rush  after  his  wife  and  get  her  back 
at  any  cost.  He  would  yield  to  her  demands,  all 
of  them,  he  would  do  anything  to  conciliate  her. 
He  could  not  endure  life  without  her. 

But  he  had  endured  it — after  listening  to  her 
father's  arguments.  Lydig  assured  him  that  to 
pursue  Patsy  against  her  will  and  insist  upon  his 
rights  as  a  husband  would  only  make  matters 
worse.  He  would  lose  her  irretrievably.  The 
only  way  to  make  Patricia  realize  her  mistake 
was  to  let  her  have  her  own  way. 

No  one  but  the  forsaken  husband  knew  the 
bitterness  of  his  struggle  with  himself,  but  he 
finally  yielded  and  the  weary  months  had  passed. 
He  had  written  Patricia  two  pleading  letters,  but 
they  were  returned  unopened,  with  these  words 
scrawled  across  one  of  them:  "Don't,  please, 
Stan!" 

Now,  however,  everything  was  changed.  He 
had  tried  the  experiment  of  patience  and  it  had 
failed.  Patsy's  telegram  indicated  that  some- 
thing had  gone  wrong:  "Father  dear,  please  come 
to  New  York  as  soon  as  convenient.  Am  not  ill, 
but  must  see  you.  Beg  you  not  to  let  Stanley 
come  yet." 

What  was  the  meaning  of  this?     What  could 


STANLEY  ASSERTS  HIMSELF     175 

be  the  meaning?  Why  did  she  not  wish  him  to 
come?  And  what  was  the  significance  of  that 
word  yet?  The  father  had  warned  Stanley 
against  following  his  cave-man  impulses.  Rot! 
He  ought  to  have  followed  them  long  ago.  After 
all  she  was  his  wife. 

"A  woman  is  merciless  when  she  does  not  love," 
Lydig  had  said  to  him  one  day,  and  Stanley  had 
not  disputed  this  at  the  time.  Now  he  would  have 
replied  that  a  woman  is  often  a  little  fool  who 
doesn't  know  whether  she  loves  or  not.  The 
right  man  can  show  her.  Well,  he  would  take 
this  thing  into  his  own  hands  and  perhaps  it  wasn't 
too  late. 

So  it  befell  that  four  days  later  Stanley's  voice 
thrilled  to  Patricia  over  the  telephone:  "Hello! 
This  is  Stan.  Yes,  I've  seen  your  father — we've 
had  a  little  talk.  Yes,  I  know  about  that 
— everything.  Could  you  come  and  take  luncheon 
with  me  at  the  Brevoort?  To-day?  Yes,  I'd 
rather  make  it  down-town,  if  you  don't  mind." 

Here  was  the  first  faint  clash  of  wills,  and 
Patricia  yielded.  She  would  have  preferred  an 
uptown  meeting  place,  one  of  those  feminine, 
charmingly  decorated  tea-rooms,  where  she  felt 
more  on  her  ground,  but  for  some  reason  she  did 
not  insist.  Nor  did  she  ask  him  to  call  for  her, 


i76  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

as  she  had  hoped  he  would,  saying  (when  he  did 
not  suggest  this)  that  she  could  come  down  quite 
conveniently  in  a  Fifth  Avenue  bus. 

Their  meeting  was  disconcertingly  direct,  quite 
friendly,  but  unsentimental.  Stanley  made  no 
move  to  kiss  her,  as  she  had  supposed  he  would 
after  so  long  a  separation.  In  a  way  she  was 
relieved  at  this,  for  why  should  a  man  kiss  a  wo- 
man who  is  trying  to  divorce  him?  Still  he  might 
have  shown  that  he  would  have  liked  to  kiss  her. 
And  at  least  he  might  have  paid  her  some  little 
compliment  on  her  looks — her  new  hat  and  dress 
that  she  had  bought  with  her  own  money.  She 
noticed  that  he  looked  pale,  a  trifle  thinner,  with 
a  spiritual  something  in  his  eyes.  He  was  dif- 
ferent in  a  way — good-natured,  gentle,  but  some- 
how vaguely  formidable.  And  he  was  better 
dressed — with  more  care  and  quieter  taste — than 
she  had  ever  seen  him.  A  splendidly  built  fel- 
low with  keen,  heavily  fringed  gray  eyes  whom 
all  the  women  in  the  room  noticed.  Had  he 
really  ceased  caring  for  her?  Or  was  it  merely 
an  assumed  coldness? 

Stanley  wasted  no  time  in  polite  generalities, 
had  no  questions  to  ask  about  her  work  or  her 
self-supporting  experiences  in  New  York,  did  not 
even  flatter  her  by  suggestions  of  jealousy — noth- 
ing of  the  sort.  On  the  contrary  his  air  was  that 


STANLEY  ASSERTS  HIMSELF     177 

of  a  man  absolutely  sure  of  himself  and  of  his 
mastery  of  the  situation. 

"Now,  Pat,  suppose  we  lay  our  cards  on  the 
table,"  he  began,  as  soon  as  he  had  given  the 
order.  "Your  father  tells  me  you  have  met  a 
Frenchman  here  and  fallen  in  love  with  him?  Is 
that  so?" 

His  whole  manner  irritated  her.  What  was  the 
need  for  this  abruptness?  How  lacking  he  was 
in  delicacy! 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  coldly. 

"You  want  a  divorce  from  me?  You  propose 
to  marry  this  Captain  Boissard?" 

"Yes." 

"As  I  understand  it  he  has  no  money?  No 
regular  business  or  position?  Have  you  thought 
about  that?" 

"That  doesn't  worry  me.  He's  a  very  talented 
man,  Stanley.  He  will  make  his  way." 

"How?  How  old  is  he?  If  I'm  going  to 
give  you  up  I  must  know  something  about  the  man 
"I'm  giving  you  to." 

"He's  thirty  years  old." 

Creighton  shook  his  head  disapprovingly. 
"It's  bad  form  to  knock  a  rival,  but  I'll  just  call 
your  attention  to  this,  Pat,  as  a  matter  of  cold 
fact,  that  if  a  man  hasn't  amounted  to  something 
by  the  time  he's  thirty,  the  chances  are  he'll  never 


i78  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

amount  to  anything.  Hasn't  Captain  Boissard 
any  income  at  all — any  sure  income?" 

"He  has  his  pay  from  the  Government  and — " 
she  flushed,  "a  little  from  his  family." 

"I  happen  to  know  what  the  pay  of  a  French 
captain  is  and — well,  it's  no  disgrace  to  be  poor, 
but — say  he  has  his  two  or  three  thousand  dollars 
a  year — he  hasn't  more  than  that,  has  he?" 

"Perhaps  not.  I  don't  know.  I  don't  care. 
This  isn't  a  question  of  money.  Love  doesn't 
depend  upon  money." 

"No,  of  course  not.  You  really  love  him,  Pat? 
There's  no  mistake  about  it  this  time?"  His  tone 
was  gentler  now. 

"There's  no  mistake,"  she  answered  with  a 
pathetic,  pleading  look  that  cut  to  his  heart.  "I 
— I  love  him,  Stan." 

"You  poor  foolish  little  girl !  You  don't  know 
what  love  is.  First  you  thought  you  loved  me — 
you  must  have  thought  so  or  you  wouldn't  have  run 
away  from  home  with  me.  Now  you're  sure  you 
love  this  Frenchman.  I  don't  doubt  that  you 
think  you  do,  you  may  love  the  man  you  think 
he  is." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"I  mean  that  we're  none  of  us  what  we  seem 
to  be.  And  the  opinion  we  have  of  other  people 


STANLEY  ASSERTS  HIMSELF     179 

is  wrong — half  the  time.  For  instance,  you've 
got  a  certain  idea  about  me,  but  it's  not  the  right 
idea.  I'm  not  the  man  you  think  I  am — not  a  bit 
of  it.  You'll  find  that  out.  You  think  I  stand 
in  awe  of  you  and  your  father  because  you've  had 
more  advantages  than  I  have.  Well,  I  don't. 
I  don't  give  a  hang  for  all  the  culture  and  nice 
ways  that  you  consider  so  important.  I  know 
something  more  important  than  culture,  a  whole 
lot  more  important." 

"What  is  that?" 

"Never  mind.  Just  watch  me.  I'll  show  you 
a  few  things — and  your  father  too.  You  don't 
either  of  you  know  your  own  minds.  Well,  I  do, 
thank  God !  I've  let  you  two  decide  for  me  long 
enough.  I  know  exactly  what  I  want  and  I'm 
going  after  it — straight  after  it."  His  eyes  had 
become  hard,  dominating. 

"You  mean  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  you — you're  my  wife." 

"I  tell  you  I  love  another  man.  I  love  him 
"with  all  my  heart  and  soul." 

"Do  you  love  him  enough  to  be  his  mistress?" 

Patricia  drew  back  white  with  anger. 

"What  an  abominable — outrageous — " 

"I'm  sorry  for  you,  if  you  don't,"  Creighton 
went  on  with  cutting  directness.  "I  know  what 


1 80  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

I'm  talking  about.  I've  only  been  here  twenty- 
four  hours,  but  I've  found  out  enough  in  that  time 
to  make  me  reasonably  sure  ..." 

"What  have  you  found  out?" 

"This  man  is  a  Catholic." 

"Naturally,  most  Frenchmen  are." 

"Devout — you  understand?" 

"Well?" 

"He  wouldn't  marry  a  divorced  woman.  He 
couldn't,  or  he  thinks  he  couldn't." 

"How  do  you  know  what  Captain  Boissard 
thinks?" 

"You  mean  to  say  you  think  he  will  marry  you  ? 
You  are  counting  on  that?  You  think  he  will 
be  big  enough  to  jeopardize  the  welfare  of  his 
precious  French  soul  for  your  sake?  Do  you?" 

She  was  crying  now — softly,  dabbing  a  hand- 
kerchief to  her  eyes. 

"Listen,  Pat!  I'm  not  a  brute.  If  I  thought 
Boissard  was  a  fine  man  who  would  make  you 
happy — if  I  thought  he  was  worthy  of  you — if  I 
believed  that  you  knew  the  kind  of  fellow  he  is 
and  loved  him  in  spite  of  that — " 

"I  won't  listen  to  you.  What  do  you  know 
against  Captain  Boissard,  except  that  he's  a  Cath- 
olic? Which  is  better  than  being  a  free-thinker." 

"Free-thinker?  I'm  going  to  be  a  straight 
thinker.  Not  a  mushy  sentimentalist.  If  Bois- 


STANLEY  ASSERTS  HIMSELF     181 

sard  was  really  a  fine  man,  I'd  step  aside.  I'd 
have  to.  I  want  you  to  be  happy.  But,  by  God, 
you  won't  be  happy  with  him.  He  won't  marry 
you." 

"He  will.  He  has  asked  me  to  marry  him  a 
dozen  times.  He  asked  me  only  yesterday." 

"Tell  him  you've  got  a  husband  living  and  see 
if  he  asks  you  again." 

"He  will." 

"He  won't." 

"And  if  he  does?     Stanley?" 

Her  voice  was  pleading,  conciliatory  as  she 
came  a  step  nearer  to  her  husband. 

Stanley  turned  away  and  stood  pondering  this 
with  a  heavy  frown. 

"If  Boissard  offers  to  marry  you  after  he  knows 
the  truth,  and  if  you  still  want  to  marry  him,  you 
shall  have  a  divorce." 


CHAPTER  IV 

PATRICIA  TELLS  PIERRE  THE  TRUTH 

(Written  by  Patricia) 

Monday. 

I  HAVE  seen  Stan.  Useless  to  record  our  inter- 
view. It  was  hard,  tearing.  I  could  have  wept 
for  him.  He  is  utterly  masculine.  Determined. 
How  pitiful  that  we  all  try  to  hold  on  to  what 
we  have  had  and  loved!  Nothing  is  lasting,  no 
matter  how  hard  we  try  to  make  it  so.  Every- 
thing is  swept  away  from  us  by  the  current  of 
life. 

I  was  honest  with  him  at  least,  but  then  I 
had  to  be.  No  shadow  of  an  evasion  is  possible 
with  him.  His  eyes  command,  his  mind  and  will 
are  like  flint.  He  resolutely  faces  realities.  Had 
he  been  in  the  place  of  Pierre  he  would  soon  have 
known  that  I  was  not  a  widow.  I  have  a  feeling 
that  even  Pierre  must  have  his  suspicions,  but 
feared  to  ask  a  question  that  might  spoil  his  dream. 
We  have  both  been  cowards. 

Stan's  ultimatum  was  characteristic;  "Catholics 

J&2 


-^^•^ 


^•^^ 


Stan 


PATRICIA  TELLS  THE  TRUTH     183 

do  not  marry  divorced  women.  Tell  him  you 
are  a  divorced  woman  and  then,  if  he  still  asks 
you  to  be  his  wife,  I  will  give  you  a  divorce. 
But  he  won't  marry  you." 

Imagine  1     He  dared  to  say  that  I 

Thursday. 

Pierre's  letters  have  been  a  comfort,  for  the 
most  part  chatty,  full  of  clever  pen-pictures  of 
places  and  people,  tender  and  promising,  though 
in  one  he  awoke  a  fear  in  my  mind.  He  referred 
to  our  kneeling  together  in  the  little  French 
church. 

"That  to  me  was  the  apex  of  happiness,  for 
it  meant  that  God  himself  had  joined  our  souls 
for  good.  How  I  should  like  to  have  a  long, 
long  talk  with  you  on  that,  and  show  you  how 
an  'inherited  faith,'  as  you  called  it,  can  become 
one's  own  property;  how  the  beauty  of  Christ  ages 
and  the  Middle  Ages  can  be  also  the  beauty  of 
modern  times  and  modern  people;  how  the  noble 
roots  of  an  old  unchanged  form  of  worship  can 
bloom  into  ever-changing  flowers  of  love  and  self- 
sacrifice." 

And  he  added  these  consoling  words:  ''You  are 
going  to  give  me  the  happiest  days  of  my  life.  I 
pray  God  that  I  may  not  be  unworthy  .  .  ." 


1 84  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

It  is  no  use  to  worry.  I  am  sure  of  Pierre. 
He  can  translate  his  love  of  the  ideal,  and  accept 
a  creed  that  is  kinder  to  poor  humans,  who  inevita- 
bly make  mistakes  at  one  time  or  another  .  .  . 

Tuesday. 

I'm  thankful  for  my  work.  My  days  at  the 
office  are  absorbing.  They  demand  all  my  atten- 
tion. To-day  I  took  father  into  my  domain  (I 
have  a  private  room  of  my  own  now,  if  you 
please)  and  he  was  properly  impressed. 

"Fine,  fine!"  he  complimented  me.  "You  had 
the  talent,  I  always  said  so,  only  your  will  did  not 
lead  it  in  the  right  direction.  If  you  want  to 
keep  this  position,  Pat,  if  it  means  happiness  to 
you,  I'm  sure  Stan  will  not  object." 

I  turned  to  him  in  surprise. 

"But,  Father,  I've  told  you  about  Pierre. 
That's  not  an  idle  fancy.  It's  the  truth.  I  love 
him.  I'm  going  to  marry  him.  Stan  will  be 
happier  without  me.  He  is  strong,  self-reliant. 
He  doesn't  need  me.  Pierre  does." 

•  ••••«• 

Four  more  days  until  Pierre's  boat  is  due  I 

Thursday. 
I  went  to  dinner  this  evening  with  three  of  the 


PATRICIA  TELLS  THE  TRUTH     185 

girls  I  have  met  through  my  work.  They  have 
a  charming  little  apartment  in  the  Village — all 
fresh  chintz  and  the  furniture  moved  about  so 
that  even  old  wrecks  of  things  look  comfy.  They 
are  great  girls,  all  up  and  coming,  not  afraid  of 
work.  Over  cigarettes  and  coffee  we  discussed 
plays  of  the  season,  music,  and  ideas  for  stories. 
One  of  them  is  not  concerned  with  men,  the  others 
hobnob  in  friendly,  casual  fashion  with  several. 
Is  that  because  they  have  not  met  the  one  man 
who  can  shatter  their  nice,  safe  equilibrium?  I, 
too,  was  once  cool  and  calm  with  my  fingers  on 
my  pulse. 

•  •••••• 

I  shall  see  Pierre — to-morrow  night! 

Friday. 

Here  I  sit  writing,  waiting  for  Pierre.  Already 
I  have  heard  his  voice  over  the  telephone.  I'm 
absurdly  excited.  I  must  be  calm.  There  is  no 
dodging  the  issue  to-night.  I  have  promised  Stan 
to  tell  Pierre  that  I  am  a  married  woman!  Is  it 
possible  Pierre  will  turn  from  me  ?  No,  he  could 
not.  Our  love  has  a  deep  spiritual  basis. 

Pierre's  first  letter,  written  at  sea,  spoke  of 
our  separation  as  the  pierre  de  louche.  He  said 
absence  is  for  the  affections  what  a  great  storm 


1 86  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

is  for  trees  in  a  forest,  some  it  wrenches  up  brut- 
ally, others  it  fortifies  in  deeper  and  stronger 
rootage!  .  .  . 

In  a  few  minutes  the  telephone  will  ring.  Its 
shrill  call  will  set  my  heart  beating  to  this  new 
swift  rhythm  of  happiness.  I  shall  put  on  my  hat, 
the  soft  velour  I  bought  this  afternoon — its  in- 
tense blue  coaxes  out  the  color  of  my  eyes.  And 
he  will  like  me  in  this  gown — two  weeks'  salary 
went  into  it — a  simple  wine-colored  velvet  cut 
with  medium  low  square  neck  and  elbow  sleeves 
edged  with  dark  fur  .  .  .  I'll  be  hurrying  into  my 
big  coat,  fastening  my  furs  snugly  at  the  throat 
so  that  their  soft,  long-haired  loveliness  brushes 
up  becomingly  about  my  face.  Then  a  dash  of 
perfume  on  the  tips  of  my  ears,  across  my  lips, 
through  my  hair  .  .  .  The  telephone  I  ...  The 
telephone  I  .  .  . 

Later. 

I  unbarred  my  prejudice  and  let  Pierre  come  up 
to  my  room,  as  all  the  girls  in  the  house  do  with 
their  suitors.  I  could  not  greet  him  with  a  simple 
hand-shake  in  the  hall,  and  kisses  in  taxis  always 
seem  furtive,  stolen.  I  want  to  get  away  from 
that,  to  clear  up  all  deception  and  be  once  more  on 
speaking  terms  with  my  best  self. 

I  had  imagined  our  meeting  dozens  of  times, 


PATRICIA  TELLS  THE  TRUTH     187 

acted  it  over  and  over  in  my  mind  in  a  dozen 
different  ways  and  places.  But  now  ...  I 
opened  the  door  and  let  my  beloved  enter  my  lit- 
tle square  room  with  its  dark  painted  furniture 
and  glowing  chintz.  I  closed  the  door  and  slipped 
quietly  into  his  outstretched  arms. 

"No,"  I  begged,  "please,  please,  Pierre!"  I 
murmured  against  his  too  vehement  kisses.  "I 
must  talk  to  you,  I  have  a  thousand  things  to 
say." 

His  faint  frown  troubled  me  as  I  studied  his 
face.  He  was  thinner.  He  looked  different 
.  .  .  Why,  of  course,  his  uniform !  He  no  longer 
wore  his  uniform.  Some  of  his  magnificence  had 
gone  with  the  blue  and  red  and  gold,  but  that  did 
not  matter.  I  was  glad,  for  the  change  gave 
him  more  wholly  to  me,  drew  him  away  from  the 
eyes  of  a  curious  world. 

So — we  sidetracked  again,  dodged  the  main  is- 
sue, and,  like  two  truant  children,  joyed  in  our 
dinner,  our  rush  out  along  the  Drive  beside  the 
cold,  gray  Hudson  with  its  fringe  of  dark  bare 
trees. 

We  found  a  table  near  the  huge  open  fire-place 
at  our  Inn.  There  were  only  half-a-dozen  couples 
dancing  and,  as  I  knew  I  could  not  take  Pierre  to 
my  room  after  ten  o'clock  (rules  of  the  house)  I 
decided  to  make  the  plunge  now. 


1 88  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

"Pierre,"  I  said  suddenly,  leaning  across  the 
table  to  him,  "I  have  something  to  tell  you.  I — 
I  have  held  something  back."  His  quick  ques- 
tioning eyes  clutched  my  heart.  "You  see  ...  I 
am  not  yet  free  .  .  .  but  I  will  be  soon.  My  hus- 
band has  promised  me  that  I  am  to  be  free." 

"Your  husband!" 

Again  fear  gripped  me  for  his  face  went  white, 
then  set  into  hard  lines. 

"You  did  not  ask  me — about  that,"  I  stam- 
mered, realizing  that  I  was  making  a  mess  of 
things.  "I  thought — I  was  almost  sure  you 
guessed  .  .  ." 

"You  knew  I  was  a  Catholic,"  he  replied. 
"You  knew  a  divorced  woman  could  mean  noth- 
ing to  me." 

His  eyes  were  cold,  his  tone  irrevocable.  If 
we  were  only  alone  where  I  could  have  a  fair 
chance.  That  maddening  foxtrot!  How  could 
I  talk  against  it  1 

"Oh!  let's  go,"  I  burst  out.  "I  can't  stand 
this — anywhere  out  of  this  bedlam." 

"Why?"  he  asked  wearily.  "It's  no  use. 
You've  said  all  there  is  to  say.  You  are  a  mar- 
ried woman.  I  am  a  Catholic.  I  cannot  marry 
a  divorcee.  You  must  have  realized  that.  You 
know  what  my  religion  means  to  me." 


PATRICIA  TELLS  THE  TRUTH     189 

At  this  my  anger  blazed. 

"You  half-knew  about  Stan  all  along.  You 
could  have  known,  but  you  feared  to  face  the 
truth.  You  did." 

"Well,  yes,"  he  admitted  slowly,  "I  did  sense 
that  things  were  not  quite  r-right  .  .  .  but  .  .  ." 

"Why  didn't  you  ask  Margot?"  I  persisted. 
"Why  did  you  avoid  her?  For  the  same  reason 
I  avoided  her.  Pierre  .  .  .  don't,  don't  look  at 
me  like  that  .  .  .  I'll  disgrace  myself,  break 
down.  Please  take  me  away  .  .  ." 

He  called  the  waiter  then,  settled  with  him  and 
helped  me  into  my  coat.  Once  in  the  car  he 
softened  a  little,  but  he  made  no  move  toward 
me. 

"It  is  no  use,"  he  said  gently.  "Oh,  please 
don't  cry  ...  It  cannot  be  ...  but  then,  we 
have  known  some  happiness.  Is  it  not  so?  It 
was  ver-ry  sweet  while  it  lasted.  I  will  remem- 
ber it  ...  always." 

I  began  to  sob  stormily. 

"You  think  yourself  religious.  You  believe 
God  is  on  your  side.  You  would  save  your  own 
soul  and  let  mine  go !"  I  reached  out  to  him 
pleadingly,  touching  his  arm.  "Surely  that  is  not 
Christ-like,  Pierre.  Isn't  your  first  duty  to  me? 
You  have  awakened  the  very  best  in  me.  If  you 


i9o  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

leave  me  now,  you  will  kill  my  belief  in  every- 
thing, man,  God — everything." 

We  were  riding  on  ...  on,  and  he  remained 
silent.  Was  he  made  of  stone?  Had  he  been 
playing  upon  my  sensibilities  all  along?  Was  it 
all  false,  a  lie?  What  a  weak,  wavering  love  his 
must  be  to  be  put  aside  for  a  creed! 

Pierre's  arms  were  about  me.  He  was  saying: 
"Pat-ricia  ...  my  darling  ...  I  thought  it 
would  all  be  so  sweet.  But,  you  see,  I  cannot 
go  against  my  family,  my  church,  my  God.  I 
cannot.  I  love  you  .  .  .  but  I  cannot  do 
that  .  .  ." 

"Your  God,  your  soul,  your  family!"  I  cried 
bitterly.  "Selfish!  Selfish!  I  fell  into  passion- 
ate weeping,  fighting  Pierre  off  when  he  bent  near 
to  comfort  me,  then  suddenly  throwing  my  arms 
about  his  neck,  kissing  him  recklessly  .  .  . 

••••••• 

He  has  gone. 

I  came  up  to  my  empty  room  and  threw  my- 
self dressed  on  my  couch.  The  ache  at  my  heart 
was  a  physical  thing  with  sharp,  agonizing  stabs. 
I  could  not  think.  I  felt  no  mental  anguish. 

It  is  not  good-by.  I  am  sure  of  that.  He 
thinks  he  will  stay  away;  but  he  cannot.  There 


PATRICIA  TELLS  THE  TRUTH     191 

are  forces  in  life  too  powerful  to  be  overcome 
or  resisted. 

I  was  too  ill  to  go  to  the  office  this  morning, 
but  I  shall  go  to-morrow  morning.  Pierre  will 
come  back  to  me.  If  not  . 


CHAPTER  V 

DESPAIR 

(Written  by  Patricia) 

Saturday. 

THREE  days  have  dragged  by.  No  word  from 
Pierre.  I  have  performed  my  task  at  the  office 
like  an  automaton.  One  of  the  girls  asked  if 
I  were  ill,  and  the  manager  offered  to  take  some 
work  off  my  shoulders. 

How  short  or  how  long  Time  is,  according  to 
circumstances.  I  am  torn  between  the  desire  to 
rush  here  and  there  in  a  mad  search  for  forget- 
fulness,  and  the  insistent  demand  to  stay  closely 
in  my  room  so  that  I  may  not  miss  a  telephone 
message.  My  whole  being  strains,  waiting  for 
the  call.  It  comes  and  I  rush  to  it,  faint  with 
anticipation.  Over  the  wire  comes  a  voice,  any 
voice,  except  the  one  I  want.  And  disappoint- 
ment breaks  over  me. 

Fate  is  malicious.  I  inevitably  meet  people  I 
have  laboriously  sought  to  avoid.  It  was  Janet 
to-day.  She  picked  me  up  in  her  motor,  blithe, 

192 


DESPAIR  193 

chatty  as  usual,  content  with  life  and  her  round 
of  pleasures  and  duties.  There  was  no  getting 
out  of  dropping  in  at  her  home  for  tea;  I  could 
not  afford  to  be  persistently  evasive  and  odd. 

A  few  months  back  I  would  have  been  un- 
stirred by  my  visit  to  that  charming  apartment. 
Now  bitterness  flooded  me.  It  was  the  tranquil 
fireside  that  Pierre  and  I  had  dreamed  of.  Why 
should  the  Janets  of  the  world  sit  lapped  in  hap- 
piness and  content,  as  life's  best  gifts  fall  into 
their  hands  without  effort,  without  intense  long- 
ings even?  But  far  back  in  my  mind  I  knew  that 
the  Janets  are  not  highly  selective,  nor  exacting 
of  Fate.  Therefore  Life  yields  them  neither 
great  joy  nor  great  pain — merely  a  cheerful  con- 
tent. They  are  tabbies  basking  in  the  sun. 

A  crisply  starched  nurse  brought  in  that  ador- 
able baby  and,  as  I  held  out  my  arms,  he  eyed 
me,  gravely  judging,  then  gave  a  leap  and  with 
a  gurgle  nestled  to  me. 

Followed  half  an  hour  of  pleasant  chatter 
while  the  firelight  played  over  the  old  blue  of  the 
porcelain,  gleamed  on  the  silver,  leaped  from  the 
polished  mahogany  of  the  tea  table,  drawing  the 
room's  out-of-the-way  corners  intimately  closer. 
It  was  all  cheery  and  comfortable — the  spicy 
smell  of  cinnamon  toast,  the  competent  move- 
ments of  an  immaculate  maid,  and  the  low,  coo- 


i94  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

ing  laugh  of  that  sturdy,  ten  months  old  boy! 
I  talked  of  my  work  and  of  father's  visit,  with 
an  elusive  mention  of  Stan,  meant  to  give  an  im- 
pression that  perhaps  .  .  .  well,  perhaps  .  .  . 
Yes,  Janet  got  it.  She  beamed  in  motherly  fash- 
ion, patted  my  hand  and  kissed  me  as  I  rose,  my 
heart  swelling  and  aching  until  I  felt  at  last  the 
tears  could  come. 

•  ••*»•  • 

I     hurried     home.     No     word.     I     searched 
through  my  mail  box,  irately  questioned  the  darky 
at  the  switchboard,  crawled  miserably  up  to  my 
room,  threw  myself  quiet  and  motionless  on  my 
couch,  my  heart  a  dead  weight,  my  ears  still  strain- 
ing for  the  telephone. 

•  •••••• 

Monday. 

He  cannot  leave  me  in  silence  much  longer. 
Perhaps  he  will  write.     Perhaps.     After  awhile. 

Thursday. 
No  word. 

The  days  break  into  sunshine  that  dies  out  like 
the  hope  in  my  heart. 

Friday. 

He  is  cold,  hard,  selfish — Pierre.     There  is  no 
such  thing  as  justice  in  the  world.     Where  is  the 


DESPAIR  195 

God  of  the  trenches,  the  Great  Unseen  Force  of 
magnificently  impartial  Love? 

Saturday  afternoon. 

No  mail  in  my  box,  but  when  I  came  to  my 
room,  listless  and  down-hearted,  I  discovered  a 
box  tied  to  the  door  knob.  A  florist's  box! 

Lilies — lilies-of-the-valley !  Their  subtle  per- 
fume reached  me  as  I  caught  the  handwriting  on 
an  envelope.  I  put  my  face  down  against  the 
small  appealing  white  flowers,  and  for  the  first 
time  since  Pierre's  leave-taking — tears! 

I  joyed  in  the  flowers  for  a  moment,  went  hum- 
ming into  the  bathroom  for  water  and  collided 
with  a  kimono-ed  girl-neighbor  who  told  me  she 
had  taken  the  box  in  from  the  florist's  boy.  I 
arranged  the  lilies  in  a  low  heliotrope  bowl,  think- 
ing of  the  message  that  awaited  me,  then,  with 
trembling  fingers  broke  the  seal. 

"Cherie: 

"This  is  good-by.  I  have  lived  with  tortured 
mind  and  heart  these  dayc  and  nights,  have  fought 
against  causing  you  the  pain  that  I  have  suffered. 
But,  I  cannot  see  you  again.  There  is  no  trust- 
ing myself.  Near  you,  with  your  dear  voice  in 
my  ears,  the  perfume  of  you,  the  touch  of  your 
hands.  .  .  .  No,  I  would  be  too  weak.  You  can 
tell  yourself  that  the  heart  of  votre  ami  will  re- 


196  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

main  forever  true.  You  alone,  bien  chere,  have 
reached  my  soul.  Adieu  !  In  spite  of  separation 
and  silence,  you  will  keep  always  the  faithful  love 

of— 

"PIERRE." 

Sunday. 

I  have  tried  to  go  back  over  the  horror  of  last 
night  and  recall  events  as  they  happened.  It  was 
just  after  Pierre's  letter  that  the  telephone  began 
its  persistent  ringing.  I  did  not  answer  it.  Then 
the  doorbell  rang.  Some  one  was  knocking. 
Voices  in  the  hall. 

"Yes,  I  am  sure  she  is  in."  Another  knock, 
then  the  knob  turntd,  the  door  opened  slowly, 
and  light  from  the  hall  streamed  in. 

"Patricia— Pat!" 

Some  one  was  stumbling  over  a  chair,  then  the 
electric  light  came  blindingly.  I  crouched  back 
in  a  corner  among  my  pillows  blinking  angrily — 
at  Margot! 

"What  do  you  want?"  I  asked  sullenly.  "Go 
away.  Oh,  I  am  ill — ill — go  away." 

She  turned  and  spoke  cheerfully  to  some  one 
in  the  hall. 

"It's  all  right.  She's  here,  just  resting — a 
headache."  She  came  back  to  the  couch  and  sat 
down  by  me. 


DESPAIR  197 

"You  take  things  too  seriously,  Pat.  V»That- 
ever  has  happened,  it's  not  worth  tearing  your 
soul  up  by  the  roots  like  this.  Particularly  .  .  . 
if  it's  a  man.  No  man  in  the  world  is  worth 
agonizing  over — selfish  beasts !" 

"Why  did  you  come?"  I  cried.    "Pierre  .  .  .  ?" 

"He  rang  me  up  to  say  'good-by.'  He's  sail- 
ing soon.  Says  he's  too  busy  to  see  any  one." 
Her  voice  ironically  stressed  the  busy. 

"I  suppose  he  told  you,"  I  began,  scanning  her 
face. 

"Nothing  ...  but  I'm  not  a  fool.  Don't 
you  think  I've  known  that  you  two  were  playing 
about  together?" 

As  she  said  this  a  fierce,  cruel  look  leaped  into 
her  eyes.  A  line  deepened  about  her  mouth.  She 
looked  ugly!  A  second  later  this  was  gone,  and 
Margot  had  resumed  her  usual,  half-humorous, 
half-cynical  expression,  a  tolerant  acceptance  of 
life  in  any  of  its  varied  forms. 

"What  difference  does  that  make  to  you?" 

"You  mean  that  I'm  not  a  custodian  of — 
-morals!" 

She  laughed  flippantly,  drew  her  light  satin 
slippered  feet  onto  the  couch,  embraced  her  knees 
with  her  arms,  and  abstractedly  circled  one  slim, 
silken  ankle  with  her  fingers.  She  was  an  ar- 
resting figure  in  her  daringly  cut  apricot  silk  even- 


i98  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

ing  gown,  the  masses  of  her  dark  hair  piled  high 
in  an  amazing  but  simple  coiffure.  "Right  you 
are,  my  dear,  but  after  all  you're  my  friend — so 
is  Pierre."  When  she  turned  to  me  again  her 
eyes  were  wonderfully  softened.  "I  knew  Pierre 
in  France  when  I  was  so  high.  We  used  to  walk 
about  the  sedate  paths  of  his  father's  fine  old 
garden.  I  was  a  youngster  in  short  skirts  with 
hair  flying,  and  this  fine  young  man  in  his  trim 
Lycee  uniform  was  my  hero.  That  was  my  one 
real  love  affair.  When  I  was  eighteen  and  he 
twenty-seven  he  would  not  look  at  me — that  is, 
not  as  I  wished  him  to.  He  was  always  grave 
and  aloof.  His  family  hoped  he  would  go  into 
the  church  .  .  ." 

"Then  he  really  is  religious?  .  .  . 

Margot  shrugged. 

"Come,  dearie !  What's  the  use  of  being  seri- 
ous? Get  into  something  pretty.  We've  a  little 
party  on  to-night  and  you're  going — oh,  yes,  you 
are.  Look  at  me,  Pat!"  She  leaned  over  me 
with  a  fierce  intentness  that  made  me  shrink  away 
from  her.  "There's  no  use  thinking  of  Pierre 
seriously.  You're  married  and  he's  a  rabid 
Catholic;  moreover,  his  family  would  disinherit 
him,  and  how  could  he  make  a  living?  You'd 
have  to  furnish  a  jolly  big  dot,  that's  certain,  and 


DESPAIR  199 

if  you  should  sway  him  ...  in  another  way  .  .  . 
(you  might,  he's  emotional  and  rather  weak)  if 
you  did,  if  you  dared  remove  that  precious  little 
halo  of  yours,  he  would  soon  hate  you,  and  him- 
self, too,  but  chiefly  you.  He's  like  other  men 
in  that.  Besides,"  again  that  evil  light  in  her 
eyes  and  the  set  look  about  her  lips,  but  they 
passed  quickly,  "I  want  you  with  me — to-night. 
It  isn't  good  for  you  to  be  alone." 

Why  I  went  I  do  not  know,  but  I  did.  Noth- 
ing seemed  of  much  consequence.  I  might  as 
well  dance  as  cry.  Why  not?  I  tried  to  coax 
back  the  old  reckless  Patricia;  I  made  my  lips 
into  a  scarlet  bow  across  my  pale  face,  all  the 
more  challenging  because  I  wore  a  simple  white 
gown.  I  frizzed  out  my  hair  audaciously. 

"Now  you'll  do,  my  dear,  but  get  a  vivid  coat," 
commented  Margot  as  she  surveyed  me. 
"Haven't  one?  Well,  I  have.  We'll  go  to  my 
apartment  first  anyway  for  cocktails." 

Half  a  dozen  men,  including  Don  Hammond, 
who  was  dispensing  drinks,  had  already  gathered 
in  the  apartment  when  we  entered.  Margot's 
parties  were  always  made  up  chiefly  of  men.  She 
burst  into  the  room  breezily. 

"Hello,  boys!     Is  Don  keeping  you  happy?" 

By  the  time  the  introductions  were  over  I  was 


200  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

sorry  I  had  come.  I  sank  down  on  the  daven- 
port before  a  large,  old-fashioned  fireplace  where 
logs  were  snapping  and  glowing,  hating  all  these 
bowing  men  about  me.  Sleek  and  well-groomed 
as  they  were  in  their  evening  dress,  they  betrayed 
their  real  selves  in  suggestive  stories,  thinly  veiled 
with  fake  decency.  Marriage  had  certainly  not 
done  much  for  Margot,  except  to  coarsen  her  un- 
speakably. 

I  had  never  attended  one  of  her  "parties,"  al- 
though she  and  I  had  had  afternoon  tea  in  her 
apartment  several  times.  It  was  a  charming 
place — by  fire  and  candlelight — Chinese  blue  and 
soft,  melting  ochers.  I  spoke  of  the  room's  rest- 
fulness  to  the  florid-faced  man  who  had  drawn 
up  a  chair  and  thrust  his  face  too  near  to  mine. 
His  answers  were  so  confused  and  vague  that  I 
laughed  and  he,  misunderstanding,  jerked  his 
chair  closer,  pressing  against  my  knees.  Some 
one  was  thumping  out  a  foxtrot,  while  Margot 
and  a  slim,  blond  youth,  clasped  close,  danced 
spasmodically.  I  eluded  the  florid-faced  person 
and,  going  over  to  Don  Hammond,  hastily  drank 
his  proffered  gin  fizz,  making  a  wry  face.  Gin 
has  always  been  medicine  to  me,  but  its  effects 
were  what  I  needed  now.  I'd  get  through  some- 
way, I  kept  telling  myself,  but  it  was  sickening, 
all  of  it.  I  saw  Margot  kiss  the  slim,  dancing 


DESPAIR  201 

youth  behind  the  door,  and  blow  a  little  salute 
at  Don's  back. 

I  was  glad  when,  wrapt  in  a  scarlet  velvet,  fur- 
trimmed  coat  of  Margot's,  I  went  with  the  others 
to  a  glaring,  fashionable  restaurant  where  we  met 
the  rest  of  the  party,  and  flocked  to  our  waiting 
table — there  it  was  banked  with  American  beauty 
roses. 

Such  agonizing  hours  of  hilarity!  I  kept  tell- 
ing myself  that  nothing  made  any  difference. 
Nothing!  And  I  drained  my  teacup  of  contra- 
band cocktails  with  hectic  eagerness.  How  idi- 
otic it  all  was,  the  blatant  talk  of  the  men,  the 
giggling  coquetry  of  the  women,  the  feverish  en- 
deavor of  every  one  to  appear  gay,  devilishly 
gay!  I  was  tired,  sick,  too,  of  fighting  off  the 
florid  one's  more  and  more  insistent  and  insinuat- 
ing attentions.  What  sentimental  rot  to  talk  of 
life  as  a  shining  river!  It  was  full  of  slimy,  un- 
lovely things,  muddled,  choked  with  the  dregs  of 
our  hopes. 

I  reached  the  point  where  I  could  not  stand  it 
any  longer,  and,  with  a  whispered  excuse  to  Mar- 
--got,  I  slipped  away  to  the  dressing-room,  then 
on  down  the  stairs  out  into  the  sharp  winter  night. 
I  walked  rapidly,  not  realizing  that  I  had  left  my 
little  gold  coin-purse  in  my  own  coat  pocket  and 
that  I  was  penniless.  The  elevated  roared  over- 


202  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

head.  Sixth  Avenue!  I  did  not  care  where  I 
went  or  what  happened  to  me.  Why  not?  .  .  . 
Why  not?  .  .  . 

I  caught  curious  looks  directed  at  me.  Once  I 
started  nervously,  imagining  that  a  man  was  fol- 
lowing me.  I  did  not  know  where  I  was  going. 
I  did  not  care.  I  only  wanted  to  get  away  from 
everything,  to  get  away  from  the  thought  beating 
at  my  weary  brain. 

I  walked  on,  crossed  the  Avenue,  and  passed 
along  East  Fifty-eighth  Street,  which  was  prac- 
tically deserted.  An  occasional  taxi-driver 
pressed  close  to  the  curb  to  urge  "Taxi,  miss?" 

Sifting  into  my  mind  came  a  thought  that 
pulled  me  up  sharply.  I  stood  still  and  turned 
it  over  in  my  mind.  Why  not?  There  was  noth- 
ing ahead  for  me  anyway.  I  might  as  well  yield 
to  this  now.  I  turned  down  two  blocks  and 
sought  East  Fifty-sixth  Street.  My  eye  ran  over 
the  individual  numbers.  I  passed  from  house  to 
house,  then  paused  before  a  creamy-colored  front. 
Its  windows  were  discreet  with  green  shutters, 
there  was  a  gleaming  brass  knocker  on  the  door, 
and  above  it  the  number  that  I  sought,  standing 
out  distinctly. 

Fear,  linked  with  all  my  instinctive  reserve, 
rose  to  fight  my  wild  intention.  Pride  looked  at 
me  with  outraged  eyes.  But  an  even  stronger 


DESPAIR  203 

impulse  warred  against  all  of  these  and  led  me 
through  the  door,  down  the  wide  empty  hallway 
to  the  drowsing  elevator  boy.  He  blinked  at  me 
solemnly,  disinterestedly,  stepping  aside  that  I 
might  enter  his  cage.  Then  to  my  stammered 
question  he  yarned  indifferently: 

"Capt'n  Boissard?  No'um.  He  ain't  come  in 
yet.  No'um." 

The  actual  question  and  answer  brought  me  to 
my  senses.  Crimsoning,  I  rushed  out,  colliding 
at  the  door  with  a  man  who  was  hurrying  in.  I 
avoided  looking  at  him,  drawing  the  deep  fur  col- 
lar of  my  cloak  jealously  about  my  face,  and  mur- 
muring an  apology.  But  the  man  stepped 
squarely  in  front  of  me,  whereupon  I  started  in- 
dignantly, then  looked  up  into  the  eyes  of  Stan! 


CHAPTER  VI 

PATRICIA  UNBURDENS   HER  SOUL 

ONE  o  clock  in  the  morning! 

Never  would  Patricia  forget  the  expression  in 
Stan's  eyes  as  he  stood  looking  down  at  her,  while 
she  hugged  her  gorgeous  cloak  and  the  tatters  of 
her  pride  about  her.  On  the  threshold  of  Pierre's 
apartment!  Anger  burned  in  his  eyes  like  a 
flame;  but  instinctively  she  realized  that  it  was  di- 
rected past  her,  not  at  her.  His  bewilderment, 
hurt  pride,  unbelief,  furious  resentment  for  him- 
self and  for  her — all  these  surging  emotions  that 
she  sensed  in  him  were  mastered  by  tenderness,  a 
supreme  tenderness  that  enveloped  her  and  lulled 
her  fears  as  a  child  is  soothed  to  sleep  by  its 
mother. 

"Come  on,  Patsy,"  he  spoke  in  a  quiet,  con- 
trolled voice.  "There's  a  taxi  passing,  we  can 
get  it,  if  we  hustle  .  .  ."  He  took  her  arm 
and  hurried  her  along,  hailing  the  driver.  Their 
feet  beat  upon  the  pavement,  her  high  heels  click- 
ing sharp  staccatos  to  his  even,  assured  tread. 

204 


UNBURDENS  HER  SOUL          205 

"Now  then,  relax — and  rest,"  he  commanded,  as 
they  settled  themselves  in  the  car.  To  the  chauf- 
feur he  said,  "Out  the  Drive,  yes,  right  along  un- 
til I  tell  you  to  stop — understand?" 

She  huddled  obediently  in  a  corner  and  he 
stretched  himself  out  comfortably,  elaborately 
casual,  in  an  endeavor  to  put  her  at  her  ease.  But 
when  he  spoke  again  his  words  exploded: 

"Look  here,  Pat.  What  I'd  like  to  do,  what 
I  planned  to  do  was  to  beat  up  that  sanctified, 
saint-posing  French  weakling,  then  take  you  home 
with  me,  whether  you  liked  it  or  not.  I  figured 
that  I'd  played  the  patient,  outraged  husband  long 
enough.  It  was  all  right  for  you  to  go  to  work. 
I've  been  proud  of  your  pluck  and  your  success, 
yes,  I  have,  but  a  love-affair  on  the  side  was  one 
too  many  for  me.  You  see  I  was  cock-sure  I'd 
win  out  in  the  long  run,  that  deep  down  in  your 
heart  you  cared  a  darn  sight  more  about  me  than 
you  knew,  and  that  the  simple  fundamental  facts 
which  keep  life  clean  and  sweet  would  appeal  to 
you  when  you  woke  up."  He  stopped  and  fum- 
bled for  his  old  friend,  pipe,  went  through  the 
mechanics  of  filling  it,  then  awkwardly  apologized 
and  rammed  it  back  into  his  pocket  in  spite  of  her 
protest.  He  continued : 

"Well,  figuring  the  way  I  do  now,"  he  con- 
tinued, "I  see  I  was  all  wrong.  I've  messed 


2o6  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

things  up  generally.  It  was  no  use  trying  to  break 
you  to  my  way  of  thinking.  I  was  a  fool  to  try. 
I  would  only  break  your  spirit.  I  guess  I  don't 
know  much  about  women. 

"I  went  to  your  father  because  the  roots  of 
his  affection  for  you  are  bedded  as  deeply  as 
mine;  besides  he  has  known  you  longer,  but  he 
wasn't  any  wiser  than  I. 

"You  know  that  letter  you  wrote  to  me,  Pat? 
I've  done  some  studying  over  it.  It's  this  glint 
of  wings  you  spoke  of  that  has  played  the  devil 
with  our  happiness.  I'm  not  blaming  you. 
Heavens,  no,  child!  It's  a  natural  aspiration  to- 
ward the  ideal.  We  all  reach  and  strain  for 
something — money,  business  success,  social  suc- 
cess, artistic  achievement.  That's  why  I  wanted 
to  quit  the  movies  and  do  a  big  piece  of  real  writ- 
ing that  would  satisfy  me,  the  real  me,  and,  poor 
dub  that  I  was! — make  you  proud  of  me."  For 
the  first  time'  a  note  of  bitterness  crept  into  his 
voice.  She  tried  to  speak,  but  he  interrupted: 

"No,  wait  a  moment,  Pat.  I've  got  to  say  my 
little  say  right  Now.  It's  been  bottled  up  for 
months.  Where  was  I?  Oh!  yes,  the  glint  of 
wings  in  a  far-off  sky.  Well,  it's  plain  that  what 
this  glint  of  wings  meant  to  you,  in  spite  of  kidding 
yourself  about  your  liberty  and  your  art  and  your 


UNBURDENS  HER  SOUL         207 

this  and  that  that  you  wanted  or  thought  you 
wanted — it's  plain  that  it  really  meant  love!" 

They  turned  a  corner  sharply  and  the  girl 
lurched  forward;  a  street  light  shone  in  across 
Stan's  face,  white,  intent,  his  eyes  centered  on 
space.  Abruptly  he  turned  to  her  and  gripped 
one  wrist  until  she  winced. 

"Pat,  you  poor  little  kid!  You  love  him  all 
right.  There's  nothing  more  to  say.  He's  not 
worthy  of  you,  not  strong  enough,  but  you  love 
him.  I've  trailed  you  all  night.  I  was  in  the 
cafe  and  watched  your  pitiful  attempts  to  be  one 
with  that  damned  vulgar  crowd,  and  yet  keep  your 
fine  little  head  above  water.  I  followed  you 
stumbling  about  the  streets,  not  knowing,  not  car- 
ing where  you  went  or  what  happened  to 
you.  And  then  in  despair  you  turned  to  him! 
There  must  be  something  about  him  to  bring  you 
— proud,  willful — humbly  to  his  door!  .  .  . 
Wait  .  .  .  just  this  and  I'm  through."  He 
moved  closer  to  her,  eyes  tender,  voice  shaken. 

"Patsy,  darling,  do  you  think  for  one  minute 
I'd  be  such  a  selfish  brute  as  to  try  to  hold  you 
against  a  love  like  that?  Do  you  think  I'd  prison 
you  with  me  when  your  happiness  is  with  some 
one  else?  Not  by  a  long  shot.  You  want  him. 
You  shall  have  him.  Now  tell  me  what's  the 


2o8  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

matter.  I'll  do  anything  to  help  you.  That's  the 
only  way  my  love  can  speak.  I'm  a  farce  at  fine 
words  and  fine  ways.  Then  I'll  fade  away — take 
the  first  train  for  California,  Nevada,  any  old 
place  that  means  a  quick  divorce  and — another 
chance  for  you.  Go  on,  dear." 

Patricia  spoke,  beginning  haltingly,  torn  with 
distress.  In  each  one  of  us  there  is  a  need  to 
unburden,  to  word  our  misdeeds,  our  remorse,  our 
despair.  The  Catholic  fathers  understood  the 
human  heart  when  they  instituted  the  confessional; 
but  it  should  be  voluntary,  not  compulsory.  How 
many  lives  it  has  saved  from  ship-wreck!  How 
many  minds  it  has  kept  sane! 

And,  presently,  under  the  encouragement  of  his 
sympathy,  Patricia  told  Stan  everything  without 
reservation,  all  the  intensity  of  joy  and  pain  that 
she  had  been  through. 

"So  you  see,"  she  concluded,  "there's  no  good 
in  divorce,  no  good  in  anything.  Oh,  Stan,  I'm 
tired,  tired!  What's  the  matter  with  me?  I'm 
not  really  bad.  I'm  not  even  selfish  at  bed  rock 
— I  know  it.  I  could  have  slaved,  been  poor,  en- 
dured anything — with  Pierre.  I'm  no  good  at 
compromises.  And  I've  spoiled  your  life.  If 
you  could  only  love  some  one  else,  Stan.  I  tell 
you  everything  is  cruel,  malicious." 

Stan  interrupted  gravely: 


UNBURDENS  HER  SOUL         209 

"You're  dead  wrong,  Pat,  you're  nervous — 
overwrought.  Sense  of  proportion  out  of  joint. 
Sense  of  humor  completely  swamped !  You're  go- 
ing right  home  to  bed  now  and  sleep  for  a  dozen 
hours."  He  rapped  on  the  window,  gave  the 
driver  Patricia's  address,  then  slipped  his  arm 
around  her  in  brotherly  fashion.  "Now  then, 
kiddie,  listen  to  me.  You're  borrowing  tragedy. 
Do  you  think  that  a  man  who  loves  a  woman  as 
this  chap  loves  you  is  going  to  give  her  up  for  a 
detail  in  creed?  Do  you  think  that?  Not  for  a 
minute  !  What  if  he  is  a  Catholic?  He's  a  man, 
too.  Mark  my  words,  he'll  come  back.  He'll 
tell  you  he  can't  live  without  you.  You  may  both 
be  doing  penance  the  rest  of  your  lives  in  some 
way  he'll  conceive  of  to  save  your  souls;  but  he'll 
come  back,  /  know  he  will." 

Patricia  would  have  been  startled  had  she  seen 
the  savage  thrust  of  his  jaw  as  he  spoke !  And 
his  arms  closed  spasmodically  about  her  shoul- 
ders. "Oh!  Patsy,"  he  choked.  "He'd  better 
be  good  to  you,  or  I'll — " 

They  rode  on  silently.  A  slow  sure  peace  stole 
into  her  heart.  Stan — so  strong  and  confident! 
He  must  know  of  what  he  spoke.  Men  did  know 
things  like  that  about  each  other.  How  grate- 
ful she  was!  How  wonderful  to  be  able  to  rely 
on  such  a  love !  Her  head  nodded  forward. 


210  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

"That's  right,  honey  .  .  .  that's  right,  go  to 
sleep  .  .  ."     Stan's  voice  sounded  far  away. 

Through  her  dreams  that  night  this  thought 
carried : 

"Pierre  will  come  back  to  me." 


CHAPTER  VII 

STANLEY  CALLS  ON  PIERRE 

To  Stan  Creighton  whose  religious  ideas  as  a 
child  had  been  formed  in  the  rather  vague  Prot- 
estant atmosphere  of  an  American  small  town 
(his  people  were  Methodists) ,  and  whose  maturer 
views  had  worked  themselves  out  on  broad,  not 
to  say  free-thinking  lines,  there  was  something 
preposterous  in  the  notion  that  a  really  fine  man 
would  allow  any  restraint  of  creed  or  dogma  to 
come  between  himself  and  the  woman  of  his 
choice.  He  could  understand  disagreements  on 
religious  subjects,  even  heated  ones,  but  he  would 
as  soon  have  thought  of  allowing  the  course  of 
his  true  love  to  be  turned  aside  by  some  political 
or  scientific  argument  as  by  anything  that  any 
.preacher  or  religious  teacher  could  say  or  write. 

Not  so  Pierre  whose  sincerity  in  these  scruples 
of  conscience  was  soon  made  apparent  in  a  meet- 
ing between  the  two  men  at  the  Frenchman's 
apartment  where  Stanley  called. 

"I  see,"  said  Creighton  when  they  had  passed 

211 


212  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

from  brief  and  embarrassing  preliminaries  to  the 
subject  that  filled  their  thoughts.  "You  love  her, 
but  you  don't  love  her  enough." 

Boissard  answered  with  simple  and  straight- 
forward convincingness:  "Monsieur,  I  beg  you 
to  believe  that  this  is  the  most  terrible  happen- 
ing of  my  life.  I  love  Pat-ricia.  My  whole  soul 
yearns  for  her.  I  would  rather  die  than  do  her 
any  wrong.  But  I  must  point  out  to  you  that  the 
situation  in  which  we  find  ourselves  was  not 
created  by  me.  Until  a  few  days  ago  I  nevair 
dreamed  that  Pat-ricia  was  a  married  woman.  I 
loved  her  honorably.  I  asked  her  to  marry  me 
honorably.  It  was  only  when  I  discovered  the 
tragic  truth  that  I  saw  what  a  gulf  lay  between 
us — an  impassable  gulf.  Then,  in  that  first  un- 
happy hour,  I  told  her  marriage  was  impossible 
between  us.  I  showed  her  why." 

"And  you  sent  her  away  from  you — said  you 
would  never  see  her  again?" 

"Mais  certainementf  To  see  her  again  meant 
marriage  or — or  sin.  I  had  to  send  her  away. 
What  would  you  have  done  in  my  place,  mon- 
sieur?" 

"I  would  have  married  her." 

"Not  if  that  meant  disgrace  to  your  beloved 
family." 

"Yes." 


STANLEY  CALLS  ON  PIERRE     213 

"Not  if  it  meant  the  betrayal  of  your  sacred 
faith,  the  perdition  of  your  immortal  soul.  No, 
monsieur!  I  beg  you  to  believe  that  in  France 
we  Catholics  take  our  religion  seriously." 

Stan  noted  the  illumined,  almost  inspired  look 
in  the  young  soldier's  eyes,  and  there  began  to 
form  in  his  heart  a  vague  feeling  that  perhaps, 
after  all,  this  Frenchman  was  a  fine  man  listen- 
ing to  the  voice  of  his  conscience,  resolved  to  do 
right  at  all  costs.  If  that  were  true,  then  Bois- 
sard  was  not  unworthy  of  Patricia. 

Stan  was  no  longer  listening,  although  he 
seemed  to  listen.  He  was  thinking  intently, 
groping  towards  a  decision  of  unbelievable  diffi- 
culty. If  Boissard  really  believed  that  to  marry 
a  divorced  woman  was  a  deadly  sin  that  would 
blight  and  destroy  his  own  soul  and  make  him 
therefore  incapable  of  giving  her  happiness,  then 
he  was  right  in  standing  by  his  conviction.  There 
are  some  things  that  a  man  will  never  do,  let  the 
consequences  be  what  they  may;  he  will  not  tram- 
ple on  the  flag  of  his  country,  he  will  not  insult 
Jhis  mother's  memory,  he  will  not  defile  the  sanc- 
tuary of  his  soul. 

"You  said  just  now  that  you  love  Patricia?" 
"Love  her?    I  would  die  for  her  ver-ry  gladly." 
Die  for  her!     Stanley  crossed  his  long  legs, 
threw  back  his  shock  of  hair  and  squinted  at  the 


2i4  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

Frenchman  through  half-shut  eyes  very  much  as 
he  would  have  sized  up  an  adversary  in  a  poker 
game. 

"I  guess  he's  on  the  level,"  mused  Creighton, 
and  the  fact  is,  if  the  call  had  come  at  that  mo- 
ment, Captain  Boissard  would  have  stepped  forth 
unfalteringly  to  any  sacrifice. 

With  this  conviction  there  came  to  Stanley, 
like  a  flash  in  the  darkness,  a  new  idea  as  to  what 
he  must  do  now.  If  this  man  was  worthy  of 
Patricia  and  loved  her  as  she  loved  him,  why — 
they  must  come  together — no  question  about  it. 
They  must  come  together  in  the  right  way — in 
wedlock.  They  would  come  together  anyhow,  as 
things  were  going.  Stan  knew  enough  about  men 
and  women  to  be  sure  of  this.  Nothing  could 
keep  them  apart,  not  vows  or  threats,  not  oceans 
or  continents — they  would  come  together.  And 
he,  Stanley,  stood  between  their  coming  together 
honorably.  So  it  was  up  to  him  to — Hm! — he 
crossed  his  legs  awkwardly  again  and  thought  of 
that  rotten  day  in  the  Argonne  woods  when  the 
Germans  were  smashing  ahead  and  had  almost 
cut  off  an  American  division  that  had  lost  its  way. 
The  order  had  come  for  a  quick  retreat  with  calls 
for  machine-gunners  who  would  remain  behind 
to  delay  the  enemy — a  bad  piece  of  business. 
Stan  was  afraid  all  right,  but  he  volunteered — that 


STANLEY  CALLS  ON  PIERRE     215 

was  for  his  flag.     Well,  this  would  be  for  Pa- 
tricia. 

Now  suddenly  with  a  rattle  of  the  elevator 
door  came  the  crisis.  There  was  a  knock,  and 
Pierre  answered  it,  facing  a  tall,  round-shouldered 
messenger  boy  who  wearily  tendered  a  pale  blue 
envelope  along  with  his  book.  Stan's  eyes  idly 
followed  his  companion's  back,  and  presently  he 
became  aware  of  an  embarrassing  situation  there 
at  the  door.  Something  unusual  was  happening. 

"Sign  there,  mister,"  said  the  boy,  and  Bois- 
sard  signed  in  nervous  haste,  then  tipped  the  mes- 
senger over-generously  and  stood  waiting  for  him 
to  go.  But  the  messenger  did  not  move. 

"The  lady  said  I  was  to  get  her  bag." 

Stan  pricked  up  his  ears.  The  lady!  What 
lady?  Why  was  the  Frenchman  so  nervous  as 
he  tore  open  the  note?  And  that  seal  on  the  en- 
velope? It  seemed  familiar.  Was  it  possible 
this  note  was  from  Patricia? 

"Just  a  minute,"  said  Boissard,  white-faced,  as 
.he  met  the  husband's  accusing  eyes. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  until  the  handbag  had 
been  found  and  delivered — a  blue  velvet  trifle — 
with  silver  letters  that  Stanley  knew  well.  Patri- 
cia's bag!  There  it  lay  on  the  mantelpiece  over 
the  fireplace,  which  must  mean  that  .  .  . 


2i6  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

When  the  boy  had  gone  Stan  said  quietly: 
"Well,  Captain,  this  puts  a  new  slant  on  the  sit- 
uation. I  judge  that  note  is  from  my  wife?" 

"Yes — er — she  called  here  for  a  few  moments 
with  Mrs.  Hammond  and — er — she  left  her 
bag." 

"When  was  that?" 

"Why — er — yesterday — yesterday   afternoon." 

It  was  evident  the  Frenchman  was  lying,  but 
Stanley  prolonged  the  suspense — he  was  thinking 
what  he  must  do  now. 

"I  see.  Mrs.  Hammond  and  my  wife  called 
here  at  your  apartment — yesterday  afternoon?" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Hammond  has  been  interesting  her- 
self in  the  fete  we  are  getting  up  for  French  con- 
sumptive children." 

"I  understood  you  to  say  that  you  hadn't  seen 
my  wife  since  you  said  good-by  to  her — the  day 
before  yesterday?" 

"I — er — I  meant  that  I  hadn't  seen  her — 
alone." 

"Then  you  weren't  alone  with  my  wife  yester- 
day?" 

There  was  just  a  suggestion  of  menace  in  thj 
slight  stress  that  Stan  put  upon  the  words  my 
wife. 

"Why,  no,  of  course  not,  the  ladies  remained 
only  un  petit  moment." 


STANLEY  CALLS  ON  PIERRE     217 

The  officer  smiled  pleasantly,  showing  his  white 
teeth. 

"And  that  note?  She  just  asked  you  to  send 
back  her  bag — is  that  all?" 

"Parf  ailment"  Pierre  made  a  careless  gesture 
as  if  to  throw  the  crumpled  sheet  into  the  fire. 

"Wait!     I'd  like  to  see  it." 

"Mais  voyons,  monsieur,  qa  ne  se  fait  pas." 

"Meaning  that  it  isn't  done.  I  get  you;  but 
I  call  your  attention  to  the  fact  that  I  am  this 
lady's  husband.  Come !  Let  me  have  it." 

Stan  spoke  pleasantly  enough,  but  Boissard  un- 
derstood quite  well  what  was  back  of  that  Ameri- 
can smile.  He  hesitated,  then  changed  to  angry 
defiance. 

"I  will  not  allow  you  to  see  this  note — 
nevair!" 

"Ah,  that's  better !  Now  we'll  get  at  the  facts. 
My  wife  was  here  with  you — alone?" 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

"Last  night." 

"At  what  time  ?" 

"I — er — I'm  not  sure." 

"Was  it  late — as  late  as  eleven?" 

"Possibly." 

"When  did  she  leave?" 

"I — I  did  not  notice  the  hour." 


218  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

"You  must  know  how  long  she  stayed — about 
how  long?" 

"Perhaps — twenty  minutes." 

"Why  did  she  come?  Did  you  ask  her  to 
come?  Did  you  know  she  was  coming?" 

The  officer  hesitated. 

"I  called  her  on  the  telephone,  monsieur.  I 
felt  that  I  must  see  her — once  more.  I  could  not 
leave  America  without  saying  adieu.  It  was  not 
possible.  In  my  place  you  would  have  done  the 
same." 

Again  that  look  of  fine  dignity  in  the  foreigner's 
dark  eyes.  Stan  felt  a  certain  admiration  for 
him.  After  all  Pierre  was  only  following  out  the 
accepted  code — lying  for  the  woman  he  loved,  to 
shield  her  from  suspicion. 

"I  can't  quite  imagine  myself  in  your  place — 
tempting  another  man's  wife  to  come  to  my  apart- 
ment— at  night — after  I  had  given  my  word  of 
honor  that  I  would  never  see  her  or  try  to  see 
her  again." 

The  words  were  calmly,  stingingly  insulting. 

"Let  us  have  no  more  words,"  cried  Boissard. 
"I  will  give  you  justification  for — anything.  Now 
then!  I  love  your  wife.  I  shall  stay  here — 
where  she  is.  I  refuse  to  sail.  I  withdraw  my 
promise.  I  shall  see  your  wife,  monsieur,  when- 


STANLEY  CALLS  ON  PIERRE     219 

ever  she  does  me  the  honor  to  allow  me  to  see 
her.  Voilal" 

He  snapped  his  fingers  at  Stanley. 

Still  Stan  controlled  himself;  he  was  awed  by 
a  thought  that  had  swept  startlingly  into  his  con- 
sciousness. Here  was  a  way  to  find  out  how 
much  real  manliness  there  was  behind  these  melo- 
dramatic protestations.  A  quick  and  simple  test 
for  this  Frenchman.  Did  he  dare  to  make  it? 
Had  he  the  courage? 

Stan  withheld  the  words  that  burned  on  his  lips, 
drawn  apart  for  a  moment  into  the  sanctuary  of 
his  own  soul;  he  was  saying  to  himself  that  God 
would  forgive  him  for  seeming  to  desecrate  the 
most  holy  thing  in  his  life  by  temporizing.  Only 
seeming!  And  Patricia  would  forgive  him,  if  she 
knew.  Then,  with  a  strangely  hushed  and  con- 
ciliatory manner  he  replied : 

"Suppose  we  cut  out  bluster  and  exaggerations. 
We're  facing  the  jiggest  thing  in  our  lives.  We 
both  need  to  keep  our  heads.  It's  hard  for  me 
to  admit  it,  but — I'll  give  you  credit  for  being 
sincere  in  what  you  said  about  my  wife.  It  was 
almost  impossible — asking  too  much  of  human 
nature — for  you  not  to  have  seen  her  last  night." 

"Ah,  monsieur!"  responded  Boissard,  mollified 
by  this  new  attitude. 


220  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

"We'll  say  we  both  love  her — more  than  we 
ever  have  loved  or  ever  will  love  any  woman. 
We  both  want  to  help  her,  to  make  her  happy — 
not  to  harm  her.  Is  that  right?" 

"Harm  Pat-ricia?     I  would  die  for  her." 

Stan's  eyes  narrowed,  his  strong  teeth  flashed 
in  a  tortured  smile  that  would  have  disturbed 
Pierre  had  he  known  its  significance. 

"I  guess  we'd  both  be  glad  to  die  for  her,  and 
perhaps — before  we  get  through — "  he  checked 
himself,  while  Boissard  studied  the  American  un- 
der vaguely  apprehensive  brows.  He  was  puz- 
zled by  this  uncanny  mildness  in  a  man  who  did 
not  look  mild. 

"Yes?" 

"There's  one  thing  that  I  want  to  get  settled, 
in  my  mind;  what  is  Patricia's  real  feeling  for 
you.  If  I  knew  that  she  loves  you  as  deeply  as 
— say  as  deeply  as,  say  half  as  deeply  as  I  love 
her,  I  wouldn't  hesitate  a  moment,  I'd  step  aside, 
I — I'd  let  you  have  her." 

"Ah,  monsieur!" 

"But  how  can  I  be  sure  of  that?  She  thought 
she  loved  me.  How  do  I  know  she  isn't  mis- 
taken about  you  ?" 

Pierre  was  silent.  He  saw  or  thought  he  saw 
the  point  towards  which  the  conversation  was 
drifting.  He  was  making  up  his  mind  whether 


STANLEY  CALLS  ON  PIERRE     221 

he  would  be  justified  in  allowing  Stanley  to  read 
Patricia's  note. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said,  "I  find  myself  in  an  un- 
speakably embarrassing  position.  What  can  be 
more  painful  to  a  man  of  heart,  a  man  of  honor, 
than  to  lay  before  a  husband  whom  he  respects 
and  whose  distress  he  sincerely  sympathizes 
with—" 

"Never  mind  that." 

"To  lay  before  him  evidence,  that  a  beloved 
and  beautiful  wife  has  bestowed  her  affection  else- 
where. My  heart  bleeds  for  you,  but — as  you 
say  tres  justement,  we  are  facing  a  supreme  mo- 
ment, we  must  think  not  only  of  ourselves,  but 
of  one  who — " 

"That's  enough!  Let  me  have  the  evidence," 
cut  in  Stan,  whose  big,  red-knuckled  hands  were 
twitching  ominously. 

At  this  with  a  deferential  bow  the  foreigner 
handed  over  Patricia's  note  and  stood,  pale  and 
tense,  while  Stan  read  it,  read  the  words  that 
doomed  his  hopes. 

"I  am  sorry,  monsieur,  ver-ry  sorry,"  mur- 
mured Pierre. 

"I  see,"  was  Stan's  only  comment  as  he  fin- 
ished. "Now  we  will  burn  it,"  and  he  flung  the 
unhappy  message  into  the  flames. 

"It  looks  as  if  Patricia  is  bound  to  go  to  you," 


222  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

he  resumed;  "nothing  can  stop  her.  Very  well, 
she'll  have  to  go  either  as  your  wife  or  your  mis- 
tress. There  isn't  any  other  way.  We'll  dis- 
cuss these  two  possibilities.  You  say  you  won't 
marry  her?" 

"I  have  shown  you  why  I  cannot  marry  her. 
I  would  be  the  happiest  man  in  the  world,  if — " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know.  Don't  go  over  that  re- 
ligious stuff.  You  can't  marry  her.  So  she'll 
have  to  be  your  mistress?  Is  that  it?" 

This  blunt  presentment  of  the  case  took  Bois- 
sard's  breath  away;  but,  pressed  by  Stan,  he  ad- 
mitted that  such  a  development  was  not  beyond 
the  bounds  of  possibility.  Poor  human  nature — 
it  was  weak. 

"And  you  propose  to  allow  this  to  happen?" 
pursued  the  husband.  "You  know  perfectly  well, 
as  a  man  of  the  world,  what  the  future  will  hold 
for  my  wife  if  she  casts  her  lot  with  you — in  this 
way — don't  you?" 

Pierre  thrust  forth  his  exquisitely  cared-for 
hands  with  their  long  distinguished  fingers  in  a 
gesture  of  pitiful  incapacity.  He  felt  that  this 
interview  was  sweeping  him  beyond  his  depth. 
What  could  he  say?  What  could  any  man  say 
to  such  a  preposterous  question — from  a  woman's 
husband? 

"Alas,  monsieur,  we  are  in  an  impasse  from 


STANLEY  CALLS  ON  PIERRE     223 

which  I  see  no  issue.  As  a  man  of  honor  I  can- 
not leave  Patricia — " 

Stan  bounded  to  his  feet  and  the  explosion  of 
his  rage,  long  suppressed,  was  a  thing  to  see. 

"Man  of  honor!"  he  strode  towards  Boissard. 
"You  blackguard!" 

The  Frenchman  rose — livid,  shaken  from  his 
smooth  correctness. 

"Ah,  it  has  come,"  he  stammered. 

"Come?  You  bet  it's  come.  I've  waited  to 
see  if  there's  a  shred  of  decency  in  you,  but  there 
isn't.  You're  yellow  all  through.  Now,  then, 
listen  to  me.  I  know  how  Patricia  feels.  She 
loves  you,  there's  no  doubt  about  it.  That  note 
was  a  cry  from  her  soul  and — by  the  Lord  Harry 
I'm  going  to  see  that  you  marry  her  and  give  her 
the  protection  of  your  name,  if  it's  the  last  thing 
I  do  on  this  earth — which  it  probably  will  be,"  he 
added  bitterly. 

"No!" 

"No?" 

Stan  advanced  slowly  until  he  came  close  to 
his  rival,  terrible  in  his  wrath  and  in  the  justice 
of  his  cause.  Pierre  did  not  speak,  did  not  move, 
but  stood  as  if  frozen  to  the  floor. 

"Look  into  my  eyes,"  ordered  Creighton. 
"What  do  you  see  there — out  of  your  precious 
soul  that  you're  so  anxious  to  save?  Am  I  bluff- 


224  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

ing?  Do  you  think  so?  Am  I  ready  to  go  to 
any  lengths — any  lengths — understand?  Do  you 
believe  it?  Look!" 

The  Frenchman  looked,  blinked,  tried  to 
straighten  himself  defiantly,  sought  blindly  to  as- 
sert himself  in  some  way,  and  failed.  His  eyes 
sank.  His  courage  oozed  out.  He  was  beaten, 
cowed  without  a  struggle  and  could  only  whimper : 
"I— I  believe  it." 

"Ah !  Go  to  that  telephone.  Call  up  my  wife 
— at  her  apartment.  She's  waiting  there,  hop- 
ing for  some  word  of  comfort.  Tell  her  you 
got  her  note.  Give  her  an  answer.  Go  on." 

Pierre  obeyed,  moving  mechanically  like  a  pris- 
oner under  sentence. 

"What— what  shall  I  tell  her?" 

"Tell  her  you  want  her  to  be  your  wife.  Tell 
her  you've  thought  it  over,  you're  happy  about 
it.  Go  on." 

Again  Pierre  obeyed  and  Stan  listened  to  a  one- 
sided telephone  conversation  that  was  certainly 
out  of  the  ordinary  for  a  loving  husband  to 
hear. 

When  it  was  over  Creighton  said :  "Whatever 
happens,  you  are  never  to  let  her  know  that  you 
asked  her  to  marry  you  under  any  sort  of  pressure 
from  me — say  it!" 

Pierre's  dark  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  floor  from 


STANLEY  CALLS  ON  PIERRE     225 

which  he  never  once  looked  up.  In  a  tremulous 
whisper  he  made  the  promise : 

"I — I  will  never  let  her  know." 

"Perhaps  you  can  make  amends  for  what  you've 
done — with  her  to  encourage  you.  You've  got 
that  to  live  for." 

"I— I'll  try." 

"My  lawyer  will  attend  to  the  divorce  formali- 
ties. He  will  communicate  with  you.  I'll  pay 
for  everything,  concede  everything." 

"You  are   generous,"   the   Frenchman  bowed. 

For  some  moments  the  two  stood  silent  listen- 
ing to  the  faint  roar  of  the  elevated,  to  the  clang 
of  neighboring  trolley  cars.  Then  Stan  turned 
to  go. 

"Well,  I  guess  that's  all.  I  won't  see  you 
again.  I'll  be  getting  back  to  the  Coast.  Oh! 
I  don't  want  to  rub  it  in,  but — do  you  know  what 
would  have  happened,  if  you  had  acted  differently 
just  now?  Suppose  you  had  said  to  me:  'I  love 
her  more  than  my  life,  but  not  more  than  my 
God.  If  I've  got  to  choose  between  my  life  and 
._  my  duty  to  God,  I'll  choose  my  duty  to  God.'  Do 
you  know  what  I  would  have  done?  Do  you?" 

"I  think  I  know — now." 

"Yes,  we  see  these  things  too  late.  It  would 
have  been  my  move,  and — there  wouldn't  be  any 
need  of  a  divorce — understand?" 


226  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

"I— I  understand." 

"Good-by."  Stan  lingered  a  moment  at  the 
door,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  broken  enemy. 

II 

Stan  walked  away  heavy-hearted.  He  had 
triumphed  over  his  rival,  but  it  was  an  empty 
victory.  He  had  lost  Patricia.  Whatever  hap- 
pened now  he  had  lost  Patricia. 

Aimlessly  he  strolled  down  Madison  Avenue, 
turning  over  in  his  mind  the  one  question  that 
remained  to  be  answered — had  he  performed  his 
full  and  final  duty  to  his  wife?  Was  there  noth- 
ing left  for  him  to  do  now  but  go  away  and  try  to 
forget?  Was  it  right  to  hide  from  her  the  fact 
that  Pierre  was  a  quitter?  Could  he  let  her 
marry  such  a  man?  Suppose  Pierre  had  a  secret 
prison  record  and  Stan  knew  this?  Would  he 
be  justified  in  holding  back  that  knowledge  ?  No  I 
And  yet  a  crime  against  the  state  was  less  serious 
than  a  crime  against  God.  A  traitor  to  his  re- 
ligion— through  cowardice — that's  what  Pierre 
was! 

On  the  other  hand,  Patricia  loved  Boissard. 
She  might  never  find  out  the  truth  about  him. 
The  glamor  of  her  love  might  shield  him.  And 


STANLEY  CALLS  ON  PIERRE     227 

even  if  she  did  know,  she  might  be  happier  with 
him  than  without  him.  Women  were  queer  crea- 
tures, apt  to  lavish  their  tenderness  upon  the  weak 
rather  than  the  strong. 

One  thing  was  certain,  if  Stan  told  Patricia 
what  had  happened,  she  would  hate  him.  She 
might  turn  against  the  Frenchman,  but  she  would 
never  forgive  Stanley  for  forcing  this  ordeal  upon 
her  lover,  for  shattering  her  radiant  dream.  She 
would  repudiate  Stan  irrevocably,  even  though  she 
repudiated  Boissard  at  the  same  time. 

Creighton  strode  along  brooding  over  this  .  .  . 

Well,  what  of  it?  What  if  he  did  lose  her? 
He  had  lost  her  already.  A  woman  cannot  love 
two  men  at  the  same  time,  and  she  loved  Pierre. 
In  any  event  Stan  was  out  of  it.  All  that  he  could 
do  was  to  help  her  a  little,  or  try  to  help  her, 
in  this  crisis,  and  then  fade  away.  Pat  was  only 
twenty-two,  a  child.  She  had  years  before  her, 
and  if  she  could  only  make  a  new  start,  a  right 
start  .  .  . 

That  was  it,  a  right  start.  He  must  influence 
her  to  do  what  was  right,  regardless  of  any  other 
consideration.  He  must  do  right  himself.  And 
it  wasn't  right  to  let  a  woman  marry  a  man  when 
some  essential  fact  regarding  this  man's  honor 
was  deliberately  concealed  from  her.  Therefore, 


228  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

the  conclusion  of  the  whole  thing  was  that  he  must 
tell  Patricia  what  had  happened  to-night  between 
himself  and  Pierre.  He  must  do  it. 

Stanley  walked  on  ... 

Wait !  Was  he  deceiving  himself  with  sophis- 
ticated reasoning?  Was  he  trying  to  justify  him- 
self for  doing  something  that  he  really  wanted 
to  do  ?  Was  he  unconsciously  influenced  by  hatred 
and  jealousy  in  thinking  that  he  ought  to  tell  Pa- 
tricia? Was  there  in  his  heart  a  sneaking  idea 
that  in  her  distress  and  loneliness  she  might  come 
back  to  him? 

Stanley  pondered  this  .  .  . 

No,  his  motives  were  clear  and  unselfish.  As 
God  was  his  witness  he  had  no  thought  save  for 
the  happiness  and  welfare  of  this  dear  child  who 
needed  help  so  much  and  who  had  no  one  but  him 
to  help  her.  He  must  decide  for  her,  he  must  act 
for  her  and — yes,  he  must  tell  her  the  truth. 

Two  hours  later — long  after  midnight — Creigh- 
ton  was  wandering  wearily  along  the  silent  and 
deeply  shadowed  streets  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Patricia's  apartment.  He  had  telephoned  to  her 
an  hour  before,  thinking  that  he  might  as  well 
have  this  last  painful  meeting  over  with  while 
he  had  the  resolution  to  face  it.  But  the  reply 
had  come  that  Mrs.  Creighton  had  gone  out  at 


STANLEY  CALLS  ON  PIERRE     229 

half-past  eleven.  Mrs.  Creighton!  She  would 
not  be  bearing  his  name  much  longer.  She  would 
want  her  divorce,  no  matter  what  she  decided 
about  Pierre. 

Strange  that  Patricia  had  left  the  house  at  that 
late  hour!  Where  had  she  gone?  It  was  now 
after  one  and  she  had  not  returned.  Could  any- 
thing have  happened?  Had  she  received  a  tele- 
gram? A  summons  over  the  phone?  The 
colored  girl  in  the  hall  was  sleepily  ignorant  and 
indifferent  as  to  this.  So  Stan  had  walked  on 
.  .  .  waiting. 

He  thought  of  Pierre,  but  rejected  that  possi- 
bility. Even  the  Frenchman's  buoyant  nature 
must  have  had  enough  of  emotional  strain  for  one 
night  without  a  meeting  with  Patricia  that  would 
necessarily  be  full  of  agitations.  And  if  she  in 
her  joy  had  telephoned  to  him,  he  would  have 
postponed  seeing  her  until  the  next  day. 

Stan  leaned  against  the  broad  stone  wall  that 
borders  Morningside  Park  along  the  ascending 
avenue  and  drank  in  the  beauties  and  mystery  of 
the  night.  Here  and  there  on  benches  under- 
neath the  gently  swaying  trees  he  discerned  dim 
couples  sitting  close  together,  lost  in  the  eternal 
ecstasy  of  their  young  happiness,  oblivious  to  the 
passing  of  time.  In  the  distance  beyond  the 
spread  of  verdure  lay  the  vast  city,  drowsing, 


23o  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

throbbing  less  intensely  after  the  day's  emotions. 
How  many  hearts  would  face  the  morrow,  as  he 
would,  with  little  hope  or  joy  left  in  them.  A 
pitiful  business  this  living  and  loving,  he  re- 
flected. What  should  he  do  now  with  his  strength 
and  his  ambition?  What  was  there  left  to  do? 

Stan  strolled  aimlessly  along  the  granite  ram- 
part that  sloped  upwards  like  an  imposing  gallery 
above  the  park  below,  and  suddenly  his  eye  was 
caught  by  the  flutter  of  a  dress  as  a  woman,  with 
a  hand  on  her  companion's  arm,  came  up  to  the 
higher  level.  A  moment  later  these  two,  bliss- 
fully absorbed  in  each  other,  reached  the  side- 
walk and,  as  the  electrics  fell  full  upon  their 
faces,  Stanley  recognized  Patricia  and  Pierre. 
He  stood  motionless  in  the  shade  of  a  maple  and 
watched  them  pass  slowly.  So  close  were  they 
that  he  sensed  a  delicate  and  familiar  fragrance 
and  caught  a  look  of  indescribable  joy  in  his  wife's 
eyes  as  she  murmured,  turning  towards  the  park 
and  sleeping  city  and  clinging  close  to  her  lover; 
uOh,  my  darling!  Isn't  it  wonderful!  Isn't  it 
beautiful!" 

Then  they  moved  on,  crossing  the  avenue,  and 
Stan's  eyes  followed  them. 

God!  What  was  he  to  do?  This  was  the  mo- 
ment for  him  to  speak,  to  carry  out  his  clearly 


STANLEY  CALLS  ON  PIERRE     231 

formed  and  well  justified  intention;  but  he  saw 
now  that  he  could  not  do  it.  The  thing  was  quite 
impossible.  He  would  never  tell  Patricia  what 
kind  of  man  Pierre  was.  Never  1 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PIERRE  ASKS  PATRICIA  TO  MARRY  HIM 

(Written  by  Patricia) 

"Love  consists  in  desiring  to  give  our  own  to  another  and  in 
feeling  as  our  own  another's  delight." 

Tuesday. 

PIERRE  has  asked  me  to  be  his  wife!  He  will 
take  me  as  I  must  be — a  divorced  woman!  I 
have  not  yet  recovered  from  the  shock  of  joy  and 
amazement  that  came  with  his  telephone  message 
last  night.  Love  has  triumphed  as  Stan  pre- 
dicted. And  to  think — to  remember! — that  pas- 
sion almost  conquered.  I  tremble  as  I  recall  that 
night  I  went  to  Pierre's  apartment.  How  did  I 
dare?  It  was  sheer  madness,  but  I  was  fighting 
for  my  happiness.  I  wanted  Pierre.  I  wanted 
him  beyond  everything  in  the  world.  And  I  would 
have  been  swept  completely  off  my  feet  had  not 
that  old  Puritan  ancestor  of  mine  stalked  out  of 
the  dusty  years  in  the  very  nick  of  time,  stiffened 
my  backbone,  starched  up  my  will,  collared  me, 

232 


PIERRE  SPEAKS  OF  MARRIAGE     233 

so  to  speak,  and  marched  me  home.  I  hated  him 
at  the  time,  wept  hysterically;  but  an  hour  later 
as  I  lay  in  the  darkness,  my  burning  face  buried 
in  the  cool  white  pillow — body  throbbing,  mind 
seething — how  I  blessed  and  respected  that  old 
ancestor. 

All  through  the  next  day  I  waited  for  some 
message  from  Pierre,  hoping  against  hope;  but 
none  came.  In  the  evening,  heart-sick  and  de- 
spairingy  I  remembered  that  I  had  left  my  bag  at 
his  place.  Making  an  excuse  of  this,  I  sent  him 
a  passionate  note  .  .  .  but  it  seems  the  boy  was 
delayed. 

At  eleven  I  went  to  bed,  leaden-hearted,  and 
at  a  quarter  past  the  telephone  shrilled  through 
the  quiet  hall.  I  leaped  up,  slipperless  and  with- 
out kimono,  to  answer  it.  Then,  as  his  voice  came 
singing  back  to  me  over  the  wire,  the  pulses  in 
my  throat  and  temples  throbbed  dizzyingly.  His 
words  struck  on  my  ears,  increasing  my  sense  of 
faintness.  He  had  changed  his  mind  .  .  .  he 
wanted  to  marry  me! 

My  answers  came  in  dispassionate  monosylla- 
bles, I  would  see  him  in  the  morning  .  .  .  yes, 
in  the  morning.  Then  I  hung  up  calmly,  went 
back  to  my  room,  crawled  into  bed  and  lay  still. 
I  was  stunned. 

Gradually  the  full  import  of  this  message  beat 


234  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

its  way  home  to  my  brain.  I  was  seized  by  an 
overmastering  joy.  Had  I  understood?  I  must 
know — immediately.  What  had  broken  down 
Pierre's  iron  resolve?  How  could  he  have  stood 
out  against  me  in  our  stormy  scene  the  night  be- 
fore .  .  .  and  changed  so  completely  now  ? 

Without  turning  on  the  light  I  groped  my  way 
back  to  the  telephone  and  called  Pierre.  His 
voice  came  gruff  and  abrupt,  a  little  petulant,  but 
softened  as  he  recognized  mine;  he  pleaded  weari- 
ness. Then,  realizing  that  my  feelings  were  hurt, 
he  yielded  and  arranged  to  meet  me  at  the  Grand 
Central  Station. 

And  so  we  met  at  midnight  in  this  queer  place, 
amid  the  rush  and  ceaseless  flow  of  humanity. 
It  was  not  a  lyrical  setting  for  our  happiness,  but 
his  words  atoned  as  we  sat  there,  lost  in  our  se- 
cluded corner,  while  the  tides  of  the  world  hur- 
ried past. 

"I'm  sorry,  dear,"  I  began  penitently,  "I  ought 
not  to  have  insisted  upon  your  coming  .  .  .  you 
look  so  tired  .  .  ." 

"It  is  nothing.     I  will  soon  be  myself  .  .  ." 

"Pierre,  listen,  dear!  I  realize  how  much  you 
have  given  up  for  my  sake,  but,  oh!  I'll  give  back 
so  generously  in  love  that — you  cannot  regret." 

His  hand  tightened  on  mine;  my  heart  seemed 
too  big  for  my  body. 


PIERRE  SPEAKS  OF  MARRIAGE     235 

"Tell  me  how  it  happened,"  I  begged,  and  his 
face  was  transfigured  as  he  said :  "Why,  my  dear, 
it  was  a  miracle,  a  direct  answer  to  my  prayers. 
All  along  I  had  told  myself  that  God  and  life 
had  promised  you  to  me,  that  love  such  as  ours, 
starting  from  a  deep,  spiritual  source,  could  not 
die.  I  clung  to  my  faith  in  the  face  of  apparent 
defeat."  There  came  into  his  eyes  a  queer, 
strained  look. 

"You  do  not  tell  me  what  I  want  to  hear,"  I 
reproached. 

"I  tell  you  everything,"  he  answered,  "when  I 
say  that  Love  is  more  powerful  than  any  other 
force  in  life,  more  compelling  even  than  religion. 
It  is  religion.  Some  angel  put  you  in  my  path; 
and  from  the  first  I  realized  that  you  could  help 
me  make  my  life  what  it  should  be." 

"Pierre!"  I  cried  joyfully.  "Pierre,  do  you 
mean  that?" 

He  sighed  heavily.  "I  would  have  had  it  dif- 
ferent, cherie.  I  would  have  had  you  first,  led 
you  to  my  altar;  but  that  could  not  be.  Mon 
Dieu!  but  we  are  weak,  we  humans.  Back  and 
forth  we  sway  like  the  treetops  in  a  wind."  Then 
with  gathering  passion:  "Weak!  Cowards!" 

But  now  our  love  rose  imperiously,  demand- 
ing more  discreet  surroundings,  and  we  passed  out 
into  the  night.  Pierre  would  have  hailed  a  taxi 


236  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

had  not  I,  with  a  new  little  proprietary  air,  cen- 
sored his  extravagance,  pointing  out  that  we  must 
begin  to  economize.  Inwardly  I  rejoined  that  I 
had  checked  my  impulse  to  take  an  apartment  after 
my  raise  in  salary.  Saving,  with  the  incentive 
of  our  approaching  marriage,  would  become  an 
interesting  game.  I  played  with  this  idea  as  we 
made  our  way  over  to  the  Avenue  and  climbed 
lurchingly  up  the  narrow  winding  steps  to  a  seat 
on  top  of  a  bus. 

We  rode  on,  silent  and  content,  under  a  black 
sky  a-thrill  with  stars.  With  Pierre's  love  I 
must  measure  up  to  many  expectations.  I  must 
make  up  to  him  for  broken  family  ties,  for  loss 
of  fortune,  and  most  of  all  I  must  build  up  his 
ideal  of  good  so  that  he  could  never  feel  that  he 
had  renounced  his  God  in  renouncing  his  creed. 

And  so  home  through  the  park  .  .  .  happy! 
.  .  .  happy  1 

Thursday. 

Stan  came  to  say  good-by  this  evening.  I  was 
shamed  of  the  indecently  joyous  atmosphere  that 
clung  about  me,  for  back  of  the  steady  light  in 
his  good  gray  eyes  was  an  expression  so  anguished 
and  tender  that  I  felt  wicked.  It  was  dastardly 
to  wound  a  man  like  Stan — simple,  open,  whole- 
some as  God's  good  gifts  of  sunshine  and  sleep, 


PIERRE  SPEAKS  OF  MARRIAGE     237 

or  the  wide  expanse  of  blue  seas  and  sky.  My 
throat  tightened  uncomfortably. 

Stan  is  too  good  for  me,  good  in  a  direct,  unaf- 
fected, challenging  way  that  erases  all  cobwebby 
dreams  and  demands  realities  of  fine  fiber. 
Pierre's  goodness  and  fineness  are  of  the  super- 
cultured  kind;  they  satisfy  the  hungry  aesthetic 
side  of  me,  but  stripped  of  fine  words  and  fine 
feathers,  of  his  impressive  traditional  background, 
how  well  would  his  realities  show  up?  No  mat- 
ter! I  love  him,  weaknesses  and  all.  I  love  him 
perhaps  a  little  more  because  I  must  forgive. 

Stan  seated  himself  clumsily  in  my  protesting 
little  handpainted  rocker,  and  thrust  his  hands 
into  his  pockets. 

"Waste  of  words  to  ask  how  things  are  with 
you,  Pat,"  he  said  with  a  valiant  effort  at  cheeri- 
ness.  "Your  heart  is  in  an  O.  K.  state  of  cozi- 
ness.  Didn't  I  tell  you  it  would  all  come  out 
right?" 

I  choked  down  the  lump  in  my  throat. 

"Oh,  Stan!  You  have  been  good  to  me,"  I 
stammered.  "Don't  think  that  all  along  I 
haven't  appreciated — just  how  splendid  you  are." 

"I  guess  we  appreciate  each  other,  Pat.  I  know 
you're  as  clean  and  fine  a  woman  as  God  ever 
made,  but — there's  no  use  trying  to  fiddle  around 
and  patch  up  an  answer  to  this  affinity  stuff.  It 


238  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

can't  be  done.  Some  people  draw  one  like  a 
magnet;  others  don't.  Sometimes  it  means  hap- 
piness; sometimes  hell.  But  go  to  the  magnet 
one  must."  He  ran  his  hands  through  his  hair, 
those  well-shaped,  generous-sized  hands  that  had 
always  made  me  shiver  a  little  because  they  were 
too  hairy  and  freckled.  But  they  were  speaking 
hands,  full  of  power.  Then  he  rose,  shaking  his 
clothes  into  place,  trying  to  bridge  the  silence 
that  settled  over  us. 

"I'll  be  pulling  out  for  Montecito  soon.  Back 
to  the  bungalow.  Might  drop  me  a  line  if  there's 
any  stuff  you  want." 

Another  silence,  and  now  abruptly  his  embar- 
rassment left  him.  "Pat,"  he  said  earnestly,  put- 
ting his  arms  about  my  shoulders  and  drawing 
me  back  to  him,  "I  don't  have  to  ask  you,  I  know 
you,  trust  you,  but  just  be  on  guard.  It  will  be 
damned  hard.  Love  always  makes  it  hard,  no 
matter  how  fine  we  are.  But  until  you  are  his 
wife,  Pat,  until  then  .  .  .  remember  you  bear  my 
name.  It's  a  good  clean  name  .  .  .  Pat,  my 
darling!  .  .  ."  With  sudden  passion  he  crushed 
me  to  him,  his  great  body  shaken  by  slow,  hard 
sobs. 

And  the  next  moment  he  had  gone. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ENTER  MARGOT 

IN  spite  of  his  inglorious  behavior  in  the  scene 
with  Creighton,  Captain  Boissard  did  not  regard 
himself  as  an  ignoble  person.  After  all  he  had 
only  yielded  before  the  superior  strength  of  a 
desperate  adversary.  He  had  defended  his  re- 
ligious convictions  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  but 
he  had  been  crushed  by  a  wild  man.  What  more 
could  he  have  done  except  to  let  Stanley  kill  him? 
And  that  would  have  brought  dishonor  upon  his 
name  and  family.  No,  it  was  his  duty  to  yield, 
just  as  one  yields  to  a  highwayman.  God  would 
forgive  him. 

With  such  poor  sophistication  did  Boissard  bol- 
ster up  his  self-respect  during  the  fortnight  fol- 
lowing Stan's  departure  for  the  West.  And, 
thanks  to  that  marvelous  power  possessed  by  all 
of  us  of  believing  what  we  wish  to  believe  and 
of  seeing  things  as  we  wish  to  see  them,  he  soon 
found  himself  restored  to  a  measure  of  self-com- 
placency. It  could  scarcely  have  been  otherwise 

239 


24o  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

for  a  man  of  his  temperament,  madly  in  love 
and  now  privileged  to  enjoy  unrestricted  meet- 
ings with  the  lady  of  his  choice,  meetings  of  de- 
licious fondness.  How  wonderfully  things  had 
shaped  themselves!  Pierre  had  been  forced  to 
do  the  thing  that  with  all  his  soul  he  longed  to 
do,  but  never  would  have  done,  unconstrained. 
To  make  an  ungracious  comparison,  it  was  as  if 
a  reformed  gambler  had  been  compelled  to  gam- 
ble, or  a  reformed  drunkard  to  drink.  His  love 
for  Patricia  grew  and  grew — if  that  were  possi- 
ble— and  he  longed  for  the  day  when,  after  lag- 
ging divorce  formalities,  she  would  be  his  wife. 

There  was  one  cloud  on  the  horizon,  however, 
one  carefully  hidden  fact  in  his  existence  that  was 
causing  the  Frenchman  anxiety.  A  chain  is  no 
stronger  than  its  weakest  link,  and  a  man's  matri- 
monial security  is  no  greater  than  the  discretion 
of  any  jealous  woman  who  may  have  cause  to 
threaten  it.  In  this  case,  to  Boissard's  intense 
regret,  there  was  such  a  woman — Margot,  she 
of  the  dark  eyes  and  quick,  vindictive  temper. 
Hell  has  no  fury,  the  poet  tells  us,  like  that  of 
beauty  scorned,  and  Pierre  was  giving  some  ap- 
prehensive thought  to  that  warning. 

Poor  Pierre !  A  weak,  not  a  wicked  man !  At 
no  time  had  he  loved  Margot  or  even  pretended 
to  love  her.  But  he  was  kind-hearted,  full  of 


IT*' 
lrf*~ 


Margot 


ENTER  MARGOT  241 

sympathy  for  a  disconsolate  fair  one,  and  in  sen- 
timental affairs  he  was  a  Parisian,  that  is,  he 
saw  no  particular  harm  in  certain  things  that  are 
regarded  with  disapproval  (at  least  theoretically) 
in  America.  For  years,  ever  since  Margot  was 
a  little  girl,  he  had  been  adored  by  her,  and 
when  she  came  to  young  womanhood  he  was  ar- 
dently pursued  by  her,  so  much  so  that  at  one  time 
he  was  tempted  by  her  fortune  and  had  even  con- 
sidered a  mercenary  union.  But,  to  his  credit,  be 
it  said,  he  had  put  aside  this  lure  and  had  learned 
with  relief  of  her  marriage  to  that  middle-aged, 
dandified  fortune-hunter,  Don  Hammond,  whom 
the  capricious  heiress  had  finally  annexed  for 
reasons  of  her  own — chiefly  a  longing  for  the  free- 
dom that  a  rich  young  matron  whose  better  half 
is  financially  dependent  upon  her  may  insist  upon 
if  she  wants  it.  Which  Margot  did. 

Following  her  marriage,  Mrs.  Don  Hammond, 
restless  and  disillusioned,  after  some  months  of 
a  vain  effort  to  adjust  herself  happily  to  her  new 
condition,  had  silenced  whatever  small  voice  of 
conscience  there  was  and  allowed  herself  to  drift 
'along  the  pleasant  way  of  her  inclinations,  this 
leading  her  more  and  more  strongly  toward 
Pierre.  Soon  she  was  in  full  pursuit,  using  all 
her  advantages  of  purse  and  person  to  achieve  the 
object  of  her  obsessing  desires. 


242  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

And  so  the  thing  had  come  about  not  too  odi- 
ously, in  the  balmy  air  of  Montecito,  with  its 
lazy,  pleasure-laden  round,  during  a  month  that 
the  handsome  captain  had  spent  there,  visiting  the 
Hammonds.  In  a  way  he  had  never  been  very 
guilty,  only  a  compromiser  with  duty,  prone  to 
follow  the  line  of  least  resistance,  in  this  as  in 
other  things.  And  never  for  a  moment  had  he 
worried  about  Don  Hammond,  whom  he  regarded 
as  a  hopeless  fool — a  bit  of  a  knave,  too — this 
being  a  fairly  accurate  estimate. 

But  Pierre  had  reason  enough  to  worry  a  few 
months  later  when,  having  returned  to  New  York 
(for  government  duties),  he  found  Margot  fol- 
lowing him  promptly,  she  in  a  state  of  romantic 
exaltation  over  this  realization  of  her  life-long 
dream.  Now  Pierre  belonged  absolutely  to  her. 
Alasl 

It  is  likely  that  this  one-sided  affaire  would  have 
dragged  along  to  some  kind  of  a  forlorn  ending, 
without  dramatic  complications,  but  for  that  meet- 
ing at  the  book-shop,  that  momentous  meeting 
when  the  flame  of  real  love  flashed  up  suddenly 
in  the  hearts  of  Patricia  and  Pierre.  How  much 
difference  a  single  meeting  can  make  in  two  lives! 
A  single  revealing  glance !  A  touch  of  the  hand  1 
Life  was  never  the  same  to  Boissard  after  that, 
never  would  be. 


ENTER  MARGOT  243 

A  man  may  have  trifled  with  women  for  years, 
taken  his  bonnes  fortunes  as  they  came,  and  yet 
be  capable  of  loving  in  the  great  way  when  he 
finds  the  one  able  to  inspire  him.  So  it  was  with 
Pierre.  He  could  not,  after  knowing  Patricia, 
continue  his  insincere  dalliance  with  Margot.  Let 
the  consequences  be  what  they  might,  he  could 
not  do  this.  Hence  embarrassed  weeks,  with  all 
manner  of  excuses  for  failure  on  his  part  to  make 
or  to  keep  appointments  with  the  sighing  and 
yearning  Mrs.  Hammond.  Business  engage- 
ments !  Unavoidable  absences.  Pretended  colds 
or  headaches,  evasions,  postponements — anything 
to  keep  the  disconsolate  lady  at  a  distance.  Even 
in  Paris  where  they  understand  these  things  it  is 
felt  that  to  break  with  a  sweetheart  (rompre)  is  a 
difficult  and  dreaded  procedure;  and  this  was 
New  York.  The  captain  was  at  his  wit's  end 
most  of  the  time.  He  was  paying  for  his  weak- 
ness. 

Pierre  was  engaged  to  marry  the  one  woman 
in  all  the  world  for  him.  No  other  presence 
now  could  thrill  him.  No  other  voice  could  charm 
him.  Patricia !  And  her  closest  friend  was  Mar- 
got! 

What  would  Margot  do  about  it,  for  she  was 
not  an  unobservant  person,  nor  was  she  one  to 
sit  down  meekly  and  let  another  woman  run 


244  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

away  with  her  lover.  What  would  Margot 
do? 

What  Margot  did  was  to  call  at  Pierre's  apart- 
ment unceremoniously  and  unannounced,  early  one 
morning  about  a  week  after  Stan's  farewell.  She 
had  been  in  this  apartment  before,  it  must  be  ac- 
knowledged, but  always  in  a  tender  and  trusting 
mood.  Now  she  came  suspicious,  keen-eyed, 
coldly  resolved  to  be  put  off  no  longer. 

Pierre  received  her  with  his  usual  deference. 
He  began  the  usual  glib  excuses  about  govern- 
ment responsibilities,  family  matters,  various  wor- 
ries— none  of  which  was  well  done.  It  was  im- 
possible to  simulate  affection.  His  old  emotional 
tricks  were  failing  him. 

Margot  studied  him  and  her  heart  sank;  she 
knew  the  signs;  but  still  she  waited,  chattered 
along,  showing  her  pretty  teeth,  coming  close  to 
him  with  an  artless  movement  that  revealed  her 
sumptuous  form  in  its  smart  spring  garbing.  She 
had  brought  him  an  armful  of  roses  from  their 
country  place — she  had  just  motored  in.  Weren't 
they  lovely?  Come,  he  must  help  her  put  them 
in  water. 

Pierre  helped  her,  listening  to  her  running  talk 
and  answering  as  best  he  could.  At  the  inevit- 
able moment  he  kissed  her,  a  perfunctory  kiss, 
and  she  pouted  her  displeasure. 


ENTER  MARGOT  245 

"Cherie,  what  is  it?"  she  pleaded.  "You  are 
strange,  different.  Tell  me." 

More  excuses  while  her  face  clouded,  her  frown 
deepened.  The  outbreak  was  near,  but  she  made 
one  more  conciliatory  effort.  He  was  tired  out. 
He  was  ill.  He  needed  a  change.  What  would 
he  say  to  a  week's  rest  in  the  Catskills?  She 
knew  a  cozy  little  inn — absolutely  quiet — delicious 
cooking — they  could  take  wonderful  strolls 
through  the  hills.  And  so  on.  Would  he 
come? 

The  Frenchman  hesitated,  understanding  quite 
well  that  the  crisis  was  at  hand,  and,  as  he  wav- 
ered, his  eyes  fell  upon  Patricia's  picture,  seen 
through  the  curtains  of  his  alcove  bedroom,  Pa- 
tricia's picture,  framed  in  red  leather,  standing  on 
the  table  de  nuit  underneath  a  rosary  of  large 
wooden  beads  from  Bethlehem. 

"I  can't  do  it.     It's  impossible,"  he  said  quietly. 

Margot's  eyes  had  followed  her  lover's  glance, 
and  now  her  fury  broke. 

"You  don't  care  for  me  any  more.  Always 
excuses — excuses  .  .  ." 

The  storm  swept  on  through  its  inevitable 
phases  —  bitter  words,  tears,  pleadings,  re- 
proaches; more  tears,  more  reproaches,  while 
Pierre  tried  vainly  to  appease  the  sufferer, 
vainly  because  he  stubbornly  refused  to  say  the 


246  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

one  thing  that  was  capable  of  appeasing  her,  he 
would  not  say  that  he  loved  her. 

"It's  all  Patricia's  fault.  I've  suspected  it  for 
weeks.  Now  I  know.  You're  in  love  with  her 
— are  you?" 

Boissard  nodded,  glad  to  throw  aside  dissimula- 
tion and  find  strength  in  his  sincerity. 

"Yes,  I  am  in  love  with  her,"  he  avowed.  "It's 
different  from  anything  I've  ever  known — ever 
dreamed  of.  I — I'm  sorry  to  hurt  you,  dear. 
You  and  I  have  been  happy  together — in  a  way, 
but  it  couldn't  last.  You  know  it  couldn't.  You 
have  obligations  that — " 

"So  has  Patricia.     She's  a  married  woman." 

"Yes,  she  told  me.  It's  unfortunate  she  did 
not  tell  me  sooner,  but — it's  all  right  now,  her 
husband  will  give  her  a  divorce." 

"A  divorce?     Pierre!     What  do  you  mean?" 

"We  are  going  to  be  married." 

"Married?  You're  going  to  marry  Patricia? 
You?" 

She  stared  at  him  with  wide-open,  startled  eyes. 

"I'm  going  to  marry  her,"  he  answered  gravely. 

"You — you  love  her  as  much  as — that?"  Mar- 
got  gasped,  for  in  spite  of  her  frivolous,  selfish 
nature,  she  was  a  devout  Catholic  and  knew  bet- 
ter than  any  one  what  this  meant  to  him.  She 
knew  the  strength  of  his  proud  family  traditions 


ENTER  MARGOT  247 

and  prejudices,  she  knew  the  sincerity  of  his  be- 
lief. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  but  she  watched  him  shrewdly, 
unconvinced. 

"Pierre,  there  is  something  you  are  keeping 
back.  I  see  it  in  your  eyes.  I  know  it.  Tell 
me — tell  me!" 

Then  he  told  her,  little  by  little,  answering  her 
questions  at  first  with  denials  and  evasions,  but 
gradually  allowing  her  to  get  the  truth  from  him, 
the  whole  miserable  truth  about  that  tragic  inter- 
view with  Stan,  ending  in  his  enforced  proposal 
of  marriage. 

"You  did  it  under  compulsion?"  rejoiced  Mar- 
got.  "Because  he  threatened  you?  You  don't 
love  her — you  don't  love  her!" 

"I  do  love  her.  I'm  proving  it  now.  If  I  didn't 
love  her,  I'd  say  so,  wouldn't  I,  just  to  satisfy 
you?  I'd  tell  you  that  I  don't  want  to  marry  Pa- 
tricia, that  I'm  doing  it  under  protest,  that  I'm 
heart-broken  about  it  and  love  you  a  thousand 
times  more,  only  you  are  married  yourself.  Don't 
"you  see  what  plausible  lies  I  could  tell  you  if  I 
were  not  sincere?  But  I  am  sincere.  I  love 
Patricia — more  than  anything." 

Margot's  comely  shoulders  lifted  skeptically. 

"It  doesn't  go,  dear  man.  You're  trying  to 
make  the  best  of  a  rotten  situation.  You  don't 


248  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

love  Patricia  better  than  anything.  If  you  did 
you  would  have  married  her  without  Stanley's  as- 
sistance. Tell  me,  suppose  Stan  hadn't  inter- 
fered? What  would  you  have  done?  Ah! 
You  see  you  can't  answer.  You  needn't.  I  know 
what  you  would  have  done." 

Her  mocking,  cynical  smile  cut  him  to  the  quick; 
seeing  which  she  became  swiftly  comforting  and 
caressing. 

"Never  mind,  Pierre.  These  things  have  to 
happen — I  mean  marriages.  Tu  aimeras  ta  petite 
Mar  got  la  meme  chose,  n'est-ce-pas?" 

"Just  what  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  she  laughed,  but  he  felt  a  vague 
threat  behind  her  restored  gayety. 


CHAPTER  X 

A   FOOL'S  PARADISE 

(Written  by  Patricia) 

Two  weeks  later. 

MARGOT  came  to  see  me  last  night  and  .  .  . 
I  am  writing  down  what  happened.  It  is  all  un- 
real to  me.  I  feel  nothing — believe  in  nothing. 
An  indifference  more  searing  than  hate  dominates 
me. 

I  had  been  to  a  concert  at  ^Eolian  Hall  with 
Pierre.  It  was  an  exquisite  program,  music  that 
brought  us  into  perfect  communion.  I  came  back 
to  my  room  at  a  little  after  ten,  humming  with 
contentment,  and  found  Margot  waiting  for  me. 
She  was  sitting,  quietly  reading.  Her  cheeks 
^flushed,  her  eyes  brilliant.  She  looked  beautiful, 
cold  and  hard  as  a  diamond  in  her  flame-colored 
evening  gown. 

"Why,  Margot,"  I  exclaimed,  "how  you  startled 
me!  ...  Been  here  long?" 

"Half-hour  or  so.  Don  is  over  at  the  Clare- 
249 


250  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

mont — stupid  party! — and  I  just  ran  away.  He 
said  he'd  stop  for  me  about  midnight.  You've 
been  so  artful  at  dodging  me,  ma  belle,  that  I 
thought  I'd  catch  you  on  the  wing." 

She  carefully  marked  her  magazine  and  laid  it 
by  on  the  table,  stifling  a  half  yawn,  as  her  shrewd 
black  eyes  held  mine.  I  suddenly  felt  guilty  and 
uneasy.  I  had  deliberately  avoided  her,  putting 
off  the  day  when  I  must  confess  to  her  about 
Pierre.  This  was  because  of  an  unanalyzable 
fear  I  had  experienced  in  her  presence. 

I  had  mechanically  thrown  off  my  light  spring 
jacket  and  small  fur,  but  stopped  at  my  hat. 

"Make  yourself  at  home,  cherie,"  laughed  Mar- 
got.  "Get  into  a  negligee.  I've  a  lot  to  talk 
to  you  about." 

I  obeyed  her  without  comment,  carefully  put 
away  my  clothes,  selected  a  soft  blue  negligee,  let 
down  my  hair  (I  had  commenced  to  double  it 
under  at  the  nape  of  my  neck  since  Pierre  had 
begged  me  to  let  it  grow  out)  and  settled  my- 
self back  among  the  pillows  of  my  couch. 

"Go  ahead,"  I  said.  "Anything  wrong? 
Surely  Don  isn't  exercising  a  husband's  author- 
ity .  .  ." 

Margot  checked  me  with  a  contemptuous  shrug, 
drew  her  chair  close  to  the  couch  and  stared  hard 
at  me. 


A  FOOL'S  PARADISE  251 

"You're  not  quite  so  desperate  as  you  were 
the  other  night,  Pat,"  she  laughed  unpleasantly. 
"Just  the  same  I  spoke  the  truth  when  I  said 
that  you're  living  in  a  Fool's  Paradise." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  Pierre  is  not  going  to  marry  you." 

My  slow-burning  resentment  flared  into  words : 

"That's  my  own  affair — and  Pierre's,"  I  said. 
"Please  understand  that,  Margot." 

Again,  that  hard,  unpleasant  laugh. 

"Did  Pierre  ask  you  to  say  that  to  me?" 

"We  have  never  discussed  you." 

"Eh  bien,  ma  chere,  let's  not  quarrel.  He's 
not  worth  it  ...  no  man  is."  She  settled  back 
more  comfortably,  tapping  with  her  slender,  dis- 
creetly-ringed fingers.  "Pat,  you're  the  same 
dear,  lovable  little  fool.  I  like  you,  always  have, 
always  must,  even  if  you  do  stand  in  my  light." 

"In  your  light !  Absurd !  How  could  I  stand 
in  your  light?  I  may  as  well  tell  you  now,  Mar- 
got,  Pierre  loves  me — enough  to  marry  me  even 
in  the  face  of  the  disapproval  of  the  Catholic 
Church.  That's  all  there  is  to  it.  Stan  has  gone 
West  to  start  divorce  proceedings.  You  said 
you  cared  for  Pierre  once  and — I  didn't  want  to 
flaunt  my  happiness  in  your  face." 

Suddenly  I  felt  very  tired  and  unhappy.  I 
wished  that  Margot  would  go  away.  But  she 


252  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

sat  calmly  with  that  mocking,  all-knowing  ex- 
pression about  her  eyes  and  mouth. 

"I  take  it  back,  Pat.  I  said  Pierre  wouldn't 
marry  you,  didn't  I?  Well,  he  would.  He's  a 
pitiful  weakling.  But  you  will  never  marry  him." 

I  was  so  on  my  nerves  now  that  I  felt  a  childish 
wish  to  cry,  also  to  do  physical  violence  to  this 
dark,  lovely  creature  leaning  over  me  with  her 
confusing  words  and  her  deadening  atmosphere. 
"Go  away,"  my  heart  cried.  "Leave  me  my  hap- 
piness and  beliefs."  But  aloud  I  said: 

"Really,  you're  too  mystifying.  What's  the 
dark  secret?" 

Anger  blazed  in  Margot's  eyes.  "So  that's 
the  tone  you  take  with  me,  is  it?  All  along  I've 
tried  to  spare  you  some  of  my  heartaches.  I 
once  hugged  a  bunch  of  dreams  quite  as  ecstatic 
as  yours.  We  all  go  through  that  stage.  Yours 
came  later  than  mine,  that's  all.  I  know  Pierre 
and  his  type.  I've  seen  him  by  the  dozen  in 
France — these  cultured  flowers  of  the  intellectual 
upper  classes  who  always  do  and  say  the  right 
thing  at  the  right  time.  They  would  die  for  their 
loves,  but  work  and  live  for  them,  never!  The 
hard  facts  of  life  are  depressing  to  these  fine  gen- 
tlemen. Have  you  forgotten  how  kindly  I  took 
up  the  little  lie  your  eyes  asked  me  to  tell  Pierre 
that  first  day  at  Brentano's?  I  suggested  that 


A  FOOL'S  PARADISE  253 

you  were  a  widow  .  .  .  Why?  Half  to  please 
you  and  half  to  further  my  own  purposes.  Don 
does  not  love  Pierre.  Don's  a  rotter  himself; 
but  he  is  out  and  out  a  rotter,  a  decent  rotter! 
He  actually  admits  it.  And,  you  see  .  .  .  he 
has  had  good  cause  to  hate  Pierre!" 

My  eyes  met  hers  incredulously. 

"I  never  tricked  myself  into  believing  that 
Pierre  loved  me,"  she  went  on  shamelessly,  "but 
...  he  found  me  beautiful,  desirable.  I  hoped 
he  would  come  to  love  me." 

"And  you  thought  he  might — marry  you?" 

"Marry?  No.  We  are  both  Catholics.  I 
wouldn't  be  guilty  of  turning  him  from  his  faith." 

"But  you  would  steal  his  love?" 

Margot  shrugged.  "In  order  to  get  a  shred 
of  happiness  in  this  old  world  we  have  to  pay — 
and  others  have  to  pay.  Don  never  imagined  I 
loved  him.  He  wanted  money.  I  wanted  a  hus- 
band and  freedom  from  my  father's  authority. 
It  was  a  fair  exchange.  Don  is  getting  his  share 
of  the  bargain." 

I  made  no  comment  and  Margot  went  on: 

"With  you  it  is  different,  Pat.  You  have  a 
real  man  for  a  husband.  I  love  Pierre,  but  I 
know — so  do  you — that  Stan  is  worth  a  dozen 
Pierres." 

The  penetrating,   eagle-like  light  in  her  eyes 


254  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

died  out  and  she  became  once  more  the  easy-going, 
likeable  Margot  that  I  had  known;  but  her  voice 
was  passionately  earnest. 

"Pat,  don't  ever  make  the  mistake  I  made.  So 
far  you've  held  on  to  the  best  in  you.  You've 
come  through  unscathed  and  still  have  a  chance 
to  know  real,  sane  happiness.  When  a  woman 
gives  herself,  it's  her  soul  and  all.  A  man  can 
wrap  up  his  best  self,  fold  it  away  in  lavender, 
trot  out  the  remainder  for  a  little  spree,  then  call 
on  the  way  home  for  his  little  lavender-scented 
soul — as  good  as  new.  He  reserves  this  for  the 
woman  he  really  loves,  and  feels  no  qualms  of 
conscience  before  her.  That  precious  little  sanc- 
tified bit  of  himself  atones  for  all  his  wander- 
ings." 

"You  mean  that  a  man  can  love  two  women  at 
the  same  time?" 

"He  might;  men  have  elastic  hearts;  but  I 
wasn't  thinking  of  that.  I  meant  that  a  man  can 
love  one  woman  and  amuse  and  flatter  himself 
with  the  beauty  of  another." 

There  came  a  blinding  flash  in  my  brain. 

"Pierre!     You!"  I  cried. 

"Yes,"  she  confessed. 

"I  shared  him  with — you!  Then  all  his  beau- 
tiful words — lies !" 


A  FOOL'S  PARADISE  255 

"No,  cherie.  They  were  true,  they  came  from 
his  lavender-scented  soul.  That  was  yours.  It 
never  was  mine." 

Margot  put  out  her  hand  in  a  movement  of 
pity,  but  I  shook  her  off  in  white  fury. 

"Pierre  has  never  been  mine  since  he  knew  you. 
I  give  you  my  word.  He  told  me  he  loved  you, 
told  me  he  would  marry  you  .  .  .  told  me  the 
real  reason  why  he  would  marry  you." 

"The  real  reason?"  I  flashed  back.  "What 
other  reason  is  there  than  his  love — our  love,  a 
good,  clean  love  .  .  ." 

"Wait!" 

"No!"  I  rushed  on.  "Do  you  think  I'm  go- 
ing to  blame  Pierre  for  mistakes  he  committed 
before  I  knew  him?  No!  This  is  only  another 
proof  that  he  needs  me.  Nothing  can  take  him 
from  me.  Do  you  hear?  Nothing!  Nothing  I 
I  am  going  to  marry  him." 

There  came  into  Margot's  face  a  look  of  con- 
centrated fury,  jealousy,  hatred.  She  was  like  a 
deadly  serpent  about  to  strike.  One  of  us  would 
Demerge  from  this  interview  crushed.  I  knew 
it. 

"Then  you  may  as  well  know,  ma  chere"  she 
taunted,  "that  Stan  forced  Pierre  to  offer  to  marry 
you,  yes,  forced  him!  In  order  to  save  his 


256  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

precious  skin  Pierre  took  you  and  renounced  his 
faith." 

"No  I  It  isn't  true  I"  I  cried,  but  I  knew  that 
it  was. 

"You're  better  off  without  him.  Bah!  A 
weak  man  is  like  a  creeping  pestilence,  he  can  do 
more  harm  than  a  dozen  villains." 

"Stan!"  I  blubbered.  "You  say  Stan  .  .  . 
forced  Pierre!  But  Stan  wants  me  himself." 

"Of  course,"  came  the  relentless,  explaining 
voice,  making  clear  my  damnation.  "Of  course 
Stan  loves  you.  That's  the  reason.  There  never 
was  such  a  love.  He's  a  man — that  husband  of 
yours." 

Like  a  battering  ram  relentlessly  driving  home 
the  truth  came  the  memory  of  Stan's  savage  words 
that  night  in  the  taxicab :  "He'd  better  be  good 
to  you,  or — " 

Still  I  would  not  believe. 

"No!"  I  cried  in  a  panic  of  fear.  "Oh!  no, 
Margot!  It  isn't  true.  Tell  me  it  isn't  true." 

Her  eyes  rested  on  me  compassionately,  and  as 
I  watched  that  expression  dawn,  grow  and  deepen 
I  read  my  own  doom.  I  was  humiliated  in  the 
dust. 

"I  believe  you,"  I  yielded  wearily.  "Now  go 
away  .  .  .  please  go  ...  now!  No,  I  am  per- 
fectly well  ...  go,  go !  Leave  me  alone  .  .  ." 


A  FOOL'S  PARADISE  257 

Later. 

I  do  not  want  to  hear  his  explanations.  I  will 
not  see  him.  It  would  be  useless,  quite  useless. 
I  will  go  on  with  my  work,  on  and  on  and  on  ... 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  END  OF   EVERYTHING 

"You're  thinking  only  of  the  man — not  of  what  he  stood  for. 
He  stood  for  everything,  good  and  beautiful;  he  was  my 
bringer  of  dreams,  my  fulfillment  of  fancy.  Losing  him,  I  lose 
not  only  this,  but  the  power,  the  wish,  ever  to  dream  again." 

FOR  a  long  time  after  Margot  had  gone  Patri- 
cia did  not  stir  from  her  place  among  the  pillows 
of  her  couch.  She  lay  inertly  with  no  positive 
thought.  The  only  living  thing  about  her  seemed 
to  be  an  insistent  pain  at  her  heart,  a  pain  that 
probed  cruelly  like  an  instrument  of  torture. 

If  only  she  could  think! 

She  buried  her  face  in  the  pillows,  beating  at 
them  with  her  clenched  fists. 

"No,  no !  It  cannot  be."  Over  and  over  she 
repeated  this  like  the  refrain  of  a  song. 

If  only  she  could  sleep!  She  must  sleep. 
There  was  so  much  to  be  done  at  the  office  to- 
morrow. The  advance  summer  fashion  number  of 
the  Millinery  Review  was  coming  out.  She  had 
some  ridiculously  pert  designs  ready — that  is  al- 
most ready.  What  was  this  pain  tearing  at  her 

258 


THE  END  OF  EVERYTHING      259 

heart?  Oh!  yes  .  .  .  Pierre!  Pierre  had  lied 
to  her.  She  would  never  see  him  again.  He  and 
Margot  .  .  .  Incredible !  Unbelievable !  Be- 
sides, how  could  she  give  him  up,  yield  all  her 
dreams,  her  beliefs,  hopes?  She  could  not! 
Could  not!  Dry  sobs  tore  her. 

Toward  morning  Patricia  fell  into  a  deep  sleep 
from  which  she  was  awakened  by  the  metallic  din 
of  her  neighbor's  alarm  clock.  She  started  from 
the  couch,  then  sank  back  in  nervous  fright.  Like 
a  malicious  enemy  lying  in  ambush,  the  pain 
leaped  back  into  her  heart,  and  memory  came  with 
it.  Some  one  turned  on  the  shower  in  the  bath- 
room next  door.  The  water  came  down  in  noisy 
glee,  pounding  in  Patricia's  ears,  while  the  bather 
sang  lustily  to  defy  the  icy  shock. 

Were  people  actually  going  on  just  as  usual? 
She  must  get  up.  It  must  be  nearly  eight  o'clock 
and  she  was  due  at  the  office  by  nine.  How  the 
pulses  throbbed  over  her  body!  And  she 
burned!  Burned! 

She  hurried  to  the  bathroom  and  collided  with 
Jier  blithe  neighbor  who  emerged,  bright-eyed  and 
pink,  from  her  shower,  wrapped  in  a  pale  blue 
kimono. 

"Hello!"  burst  out  the  radiant  one.  "What 
.  .  .  well,  say  you  must  have  had  some  little 
party  last  night.  You  look  all  in." 


26o  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

Patricia  got  by  her.  But  she  oughtn't  to  have 
taken  the  shower.  She  was  cold.  Too  cold. 

The  noises  of  the  subway  were  maddening. 
They  ground  on  her  nerves  until  she  could  have 
cried  aloud.  The  crossings  bewildered  her. 
Everything  seemed  to  dart  by  at  once.  How  many 
people  there  were !  All  going  alertly  about  their 
business.  People!  Everywhere  people!  They 
jostled  her,  elbowed  her  out  of  their  way.  She 
wanted  to  strike  out  savagely  at  them.  She  hated 
them.  Hated  the  city.  Hated  New  York.  She 
wanted  to  get  away.  How  the  noises  hurt ! 

All  day  she  worked  at  her  desk.  Sick,  burn- 
ing with  fever,  tormented  by  her  thoughts,  Patri- 
cia worked  on  through  the  office  hours,  finished 
her  designs,  then  took  a  bus  and  rode  down  the 
Avenue  to  the  old  Brevoort  House  where  her 
father  was  stopping. 

As  she  went  up  the  broad,  wooden  steps  into 
the  old  white  building  her  tension  lessened.  The 
little  Frenchman  at  the  book  stall  near  the  door 
recognized  her  and  bowed  deferentially.  Her 
father  was  well  known  here.  But  the  night  clerk 
was  new,  indifferent  and  curt.  No,  Mr.  Lydig 
was  not  in.  He  had  left  word  that  he  was  dining 
out  with  a  friend. 

Keenly  disappointed,  Patricia  turned  away  and 
sought  the  little  waiting  room.  Two  or  three 


THE  END  OF  EVERYTHING      261 

couples  were  idling  there,  talking  in  low  voices. 
She  chose  a  seat  by  one  of  the  long  French  win- 
dows where  she  could  look  out  on  the  brightly 
lighted  Avenue,  busy  with  the  traffic  of  the  dinner 
hour.  As  she  passed  an  old  fashioned  mirror, 
that  ran  from  floor  to  ceiling,  she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  herself.  How  odd  she  looked!  And 
plain!  That  was  because  there  was  nothing  more 
in  the  world  for  her — she  had  come  to  the  end  of 
everything. 

The  hours  of  Patricia's  wait  were  slow  torture. 
She  went  out  into  the  night,  seeking  the  cool 
breeze,  but  the  ceaseless  noise  and  movement 
drove  her  back.  Twice  she  started  to  take  the 
bus  home  and  twice  she  turned  back,  conquered 
by  the  thought  of  her  lonely  room. 

At  last  her  father  came  hurrying  in,  hat  and 
stick  in  hand,  his  face  full  of  concern  as  he  dis- 
covered Patricia  huddled  in  her  corner. 

"Why,  Pat!     Poor  child,  what  is  it?" 

"I  thought  you'd  never  come,"  she  said  petu- 
lantly, then  put  her  head  down  and  burst  into 
~tears.  Her  voice  came  brokenly: 

"Take  me  home,  Father  .  .  .  take  me  away 
from  this  horrible  noise.  Don't  leave  me  here, 
please  .  .  ." 

Bit  by  bit,  soothing  her  as  best  he  could,  he 
drew  the  story  from  her,  all  that  Margot  had  told 


262  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

her,  and  was  convinced  of  the  truth,  partly  by  her 
half-hearted  excuses  and  baited  phrases  set  for 
comfort  and  reassurance.  Alas!  He  saw  that 
what  she  said  was  true,  and  he  knew  what  this 
meant  to  his  child. 

"Patsy,  dear,  you're  making  yourself  ill.  I 
must  take  you  home.  We'll  go  into  all  this  to- 
morrow. Come  along  now  .  .  .  had  your  din- 
ner? .  .  .  Oh !  yes,  you  do.  We'll  get  you  some- 
thing hot,  then  for  a  good  sleep,  and  I'll  come  for 
you  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  Now  just 
calm  down." 

An  hour  later  as  they  drove  home  Patricia 
dozed  in  her  father's  arms,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing when  he  called  for  her  she  had  a  high  fever. 
The  doctor  insisted  that  she  be  moved  to  St. 
Luke's  hospital  where  she  could  be  properly  cared 
for. 

"She's  on  the  verge  of  brain  fever,"  he  told 
her  father.  "She's  had  some  severe  mental 
shock.  It  will  take  care  to  bridge  this  crisis." 

There  followed  days  of  delirium  and  anxiety, 
and  three  weeks  later  Newtcn  Lydig,  accompanied 
by  a  trained  nurse,  started  across  the  continent 
for  California,  taking  poor  Patricia  back  to  her 
anxiously  waiting  mother. 


PART  THREE— LOVE  WATCHES 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  BARRIER  OF  PRIDE 
(Written  by  Patricia) 

Six  months  later 
in  the  Ojai  F  alley. 

"O  gracious  Mother,  in  thy  vast  eternal  sunlight, 
Heal  us,  thy  foolish  children,  from  our  sins; 
Who  heed  thee  not,  but  careless  of  thy  Presence 
Turn  our  bent  backs  on  thee  and  scratch  and  scrabble 
In  ash-heaps   for   Salvation." 

PURPLE  shadows  stealing  up  the  canons  and 
over  the  scorched  California  hills,  touching  their 
barren  boldness  with  mystery  and  beauty.  Be- 
low, red  sandstone,  then  an  olive  orchard,  its 
graygreen  leaves  silvering  in  the  lazy  summer 
-breeze;  and  beyond,  the  wide  sweep  of  the  peace- 
ful valley,  enfolded  by  the  giant  arms  of  its  hills. 

Here,  perched  on  my  gray  bowlder  well  up  its 
craggy  slope,  I  sit  writing,  idly,  yielding  now  and 
again  to  the  impelling  languor  that  overtakes  me, 
a  convalescent,  living  in  the  open  air  and  sunshine. 

265 


266  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

"How  one  loves  them, 
These  wide  horizons, 
Vague  and  vast  and  infinite." 

They  tell  me  I  was  very  ill  when  they  brought 
me  home  six  months  ago.  I  do  not  remember 
much  about  that,  only  the  amazement  when  I 
woke  to  find  myself  here.  And  then  the  slow 
building-up,  days  of  courage  followed  by  despair 
.  .  .  Hot  summer  nights  flooded  with  moonlight 
when  I,  out  of  all  the  world,  seemed  alone  with 
my  bitter  sweet  memories — mother,  father  and 
myself!  Just  as  of  old! 

I  can  feel  the  anxious  eyes  of  my  parents  follow- 
ing me  as  I  move  about  the  house  or  garden,  can 
sense  their  suppressed  questions,  the  tenderness 
they  mask  with  a  pathetic  studied  cheerfulness. 
Often  I  feel  as  if  they  were  my  own  dear  children 
whom  I  must  shield  from  unhappiness  through 
me !  So  we  play  a  little  farcical  game  with  one 
another. 

Tuesday. 

To-night,  under  a  full  moon,  as  I  lay  in  my  low 
canvas  chair  in  the  garden  listening  to  the  usual 
night  concert — mocking-birds,  crickets,  frogs, — a 
party  on  horseback  passed.  Their  voices  and 
laughter  floated  back  to  me  with  a  merry  clitter- 


THE  BARRIER  OF  PRIDE         267 

clatter  of  horse's  hoofs.  Youth  and  love!  Al- 
ways the  same  !  Heedlessly  happy !  Indifferent 
to  the  sorrows  of  those  who  have  dropped  by  the 
wayside.  The  old  sharp  pang  shot  through  me 
as  I  listened — and  remembered! 

A  latticed  window  opened  and  mother's  voice 
came,  "Patsy,  dear!  You'd  better  get  a  scarf. 
The  dew  is  falling.  You'll  be  chilled  through." 

I  went  into  the  house  wearily. 

What  does  a  girl  do  when  her  heart  is  broken? 
And  her  pride  humbled?  When  she  sees  that  she 
has  made  mistakes  .  .  .  mistakes?  And  knows 
that  she  may  make  more?  How  does  she  go  on 
living? 

WOOZY 

(Speaking  suddenly)      Don't  be  discouraged, 
Patsy.     It  will  all  come  out  right,  if  you'll  only — 
PATRICIA 

Go  to  Stan  and  tell  him  I'm  sorry  and  ask  him 
to  take  me  back?  No!  That's  impossible. 
You  can  see  it's  impossible,  Woozy.  After  I've 
had  my  own  way  and  gone  to  New  York,  after 
everything  has  failed  me  and  I — I'm  down  and 
out  (crying  softly) — how  can  I  go  to  Stan? 
WOOZY 

I  didn't  mean  that  exactly. 


268  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

PATRICIA 

Besides,  I  don't  love  him,  that  is  I — I  don't 
think  I  do. 

WOOZY 
If  you  would  only  ask  for  guidance. 

PATRICIA 

Say  my  prayers?  No!  I've  tried,  but — I 
can't.  Why  does  God  make  the  world  so  hard 
for  women  ? 

WOOZY 

He  doesn't.  It's  a  beautiful  world  for  women 
who  obey  the  law — like  mother. 

PATRICIA 
What  law? 

WOOZY 

The  oldest  law  there  is,  that  it's  more  blessed 
to  give  than  to  receive.  You've  only  tried  receiv- 
ing. You  want  everything  done  for  you.  Why 
don't  you  try  doing  something  for  somebody  else  ? 

PATRICIA 
There  you  are  again — religion. 

WOOZY 
No.     I  mean  work. 

PATRICIA 

Haven't  I  been  working?  Didn't  I  get  up  at 
seven  and  slave  in  an  office  all  day?  Wasn't  that 
work? 


THE  BARRIER  OF  PRIDE         269 

WOOZY 

I  said  unselfish  work.  What  you  did  was 
through  ambition — for  yourself.  Why  don't  you 
try  some  kind  of  unselfish  work? 

PATRICIA 

(Hesitating)  I — I'll  think  about  it,  Woozy. 
I'm  not  going  to  quarrel  with  you  anyway.  I'm 
too  tired. 

Wednesday. 

I  saw  the  post-man  joggling  along  the  road 
behind  his  shambling  old  mare  this  morning  and 
ran  out  to  get  the  mail  before  he  put  it  in  the  box. 
He  was  chattily  inclined  and  I  found  it  hard  to 
listen  as  Stan's  determined  hand-writing  chal- 
lenged me  from  a  large  square  of  envelope.  It 
was  addressed  to  father  and  I  was  conscious  of 
keen  chagrin.  I  found  father  in  the  garden  and 
cajoled  him  to  the  hammock  in  the  arbor  before 
I  gave  him  the  letter. 

"You've  never  told  me,"  I  said,  "whether  Stan 
went  ahead  with  the  divorce,  Father,  whether  he 
fias  written,  or  anything.  I  think  I  ought  to 
know."  I  waited,  with  that  old  unnamed  fear 
running  through  me. 

Father  opened  his  letter  with  maddening  pre- 
cision before  he  answered. 

"He  couldn't  very  well  go  on  with  the  divorce 


27o  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

while  you  were  so  ill,  my  dear.  I  persuaded  him 
to  wait  until  you  were  well  again,  since  there  was 
no  particular  rush  about  it.  He  wrote  twice  while 
you  were  ill — not  since  then."  During  this  father 
was  scanning  the  letter  in  a  most  casual  way. 
"This  is  merely  to  say  that  he  got  the  little  box 
with  his  mother's  earrings  that  you  sent  back. 
He's  much  obliged." 
That  was  all ! 

II 

Three  months  later 
St.  James  Park. 

For  three  months  I've  been  trying  to  please 
Woozy,  occupying  myself  with  good  works,  and 
the  result  is — I  am  forced  to  admit  that  some 
women  make  perfect  fools  of  themselves  when  it 
comes  to  following  out  independent  careers.  This 
is  a  pity  for  it  gives  our  righteous  guardians  an 
argument  that  they  are  quick  to  seize  upon  and 
exaggerate  for  not  giving  liberty  to  any  of  us.  It 
seems  that  quite  a  number  of  silly  movie-struck 
girls  have  come  to  Los  Angeles  thinking  they  are 
pretty  enough  and  clever  enough  to  be  second 
Mary  Pickfords — and,  naturally,  some  of  them 
are  out  of  jobs. 

Some  of  the  leading  women  in  Los  Angeles 


THE  BARRIER  OF  PRIDE         271 

have  organized  to  find  work  for  these  girls — 
that's  where  I  come  in — but  the  discouraging  part 
of  it  is  that  most  of  these  girls  will  throw  up  any 
business  position  we  get  them  the  very  minute  they 
hear  of  even  the  faintest  chance  for  picture  work. 
It's  an  obsession!  No  matter  what  they  have 
suffered,  they  still  hope  on.  The  next  time  they 
will  land  something  big.  Three  hundred  dollars 
a  week  at  least!  And  a  star  part  later!  And  if 
they  get  a  little  money,  they  spend  it  all  on  clothes, 
they  say  they  must  make  a  good  showing  in  order 
to  attract  the  directors.  Oh,  those  directors! 

It's  no  use  arguing  with  them,  for  of  course 
girls  have  become  stars  overnight,  and  leaped 
into  fame  and  fortune  through  making  a  lucky  hit 
in  some  small  part.  But  what  a  horrible  gamble 
it  is! 

Saturday  night. 

I  had  one  good  idea  anyway,  and  the  ladies  on 
the  committee  say  that  I  helped  put  it  over  splen- 
didly. What  these  girls  who  are  adrift  in  Los 
"Angeles — I  suppose  it's  the  same  in  other  cities — 
need  especially  are  decent  homes,  where  they  can 
have  reasonable  comforts  and  wholesome  food 
for  a  modest  expenditure.  We  have  established 
a  small  Studio  Club  in  an  old  mansion  near  Holly- 
wood that  we  were  able  to  rent  on  favorable 


272  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

terms,  but  we  must  have  more  sleeping  porches 
and  bathrooms.  So  I  suggested  that  we  start  a 
drive  among  the  public  spirited  citizens  to  raise 
ten  thousand  dollars,  and  tag^ght  this  effort  cul- 
minated in  a  fete  with  danqa^  We  had  dozens 
of  pretty  girls  in  fetching  costumes;  and  there 
were  crowds  willing  to  spend  their  money  so  that 
we  cleared  over  seven  thousand  dollars.  I  was  so 
pleased  1 

III 

Sunday. 

To-night  as  we  were  finishing  dinner  father 
turned  his  kindly  gray  eyes  on  me  and  said:  "By 
the  way,  I've  good  news  for  you,  Pat." 

I  straightened  up  eagerly. 

"Yes?" 

"The  lease  is  up  on  our  Fifty-sixth  Street  apart- 
ment and  we  go  back  to  New  York  next  month." 

"Oh!" 

My  heart  sank  and  I'm  afraid  my  face  showed 
it.  A  whole  continent  between  Stan  and  me! 
What  chance  would  I  ever  have  to  .  .  .  ? 

Father  was  scrutinizing  me  keenly. 

"Why,  come,"  he  pinched  my  cheek  playfully, 
"you  don't  seem  particularly  joyful.  I  thought 
you'd  rise  with  a  shout  of  thanksgiving." 


THE  BARRIER  OF  PRIDE         273 

"I — why,  yes,  that's  fine,  Father,"  I  managed, 
but  I  could  tell  that  he  suspects  the  truth. 

Stan !  All  through  the  evening  he  has  been 
in  my  thoughts,  I  can  see  him  plainly  .  .  . 
laughing,  teasing  .  .  .  filling  his  loved  old  pipe. 
How  he  used  to  exasperate  me  eating  apples! 
Sinking  his  strong  white  teeth  into  the  red  skin, 
noisily  snapping  off  a  bite  to  chew  it  with  juicy 
satisfaction,  one  eye  cocked  in  my  direction  to  en- 
joy my  shivers  of  disgust.  He  is  such  a  boy! 
.  .  .  Oh!  Stan,  if  I  could  only  have  loved 
you! 

WOOZY 

You  do  love  him.  You  know  very  well  you 
love  him. 

PATRICIA 

No! 

WOOZY 

Then  why  do  you  think  about  him  all  the  time  ? 
Why  aren't  you  glad  to  go  to  New  York? 
PATRICIA 

I  hate  New  York — now.     It  makes  me  think 
of — you  know.      Besides,  I  like  this  Studio  work. 
I  take  pride  in  it.     What  are  you  laughing  at? 
WOOZY 

Oh,  nothing,  only — if  Stan  should  move  to 
New  York — 


274  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

PATRICIA 

(Biting  her  lip,  then  after  a  long  silence}  It's 
possible  I  do  love  him.  He's  so  fine  and — de- 
pendable. 

WOOZY 

A  woman  can't  get  along  very  well  without  a 
man's  companionship,  even  if  she  has  a  career, 
can  she? 

PATRICIA 

N-no.  I  suppose  she  can't.  Men  have  de- 
veloped a  soundness  of  judgment  and — er — cer- 
tain practical  qualities  through  centuries  of  strug- 
gle that  women  can't  be  expected  to  have — yet. 
But  women  will  get  these  qualities — gradually. 
WOOZY 

(Teasing]  In  a  few  centuries.  Besides,  even 
when  they  have  careers  and  are  successful  in  them, 
women  have  a  certain  capacity  for  loving,  haven't 
they,  Pat? 

PATRICIA 

(Smiling)     Silly! 

WOOZY 

And  for  being  loved?  Even  a  woman  lawyer 
wants  to  be  kissed  once  in  awhile,  doesn't  she? 
The  question  is,  Who's  going  to  do  the  kissing? 
For  example,  if  you  went  back  to  New  York — 
without  Stan? 


THE  BARRIER  OF  PRIDE         275 

PATRICIA 
Yes? 

WOOZY 

You  couldn't  be  working  all  the  time.  You'd 
have  your  evenings  and — after  all,  you're  only 
twenty-three. 

PATRICIA 

That's  it.  I'd  be  lonely.  That's  why  I  don't 
want  to  go. 

WOOZY 
You'd  meet  other  men. 

PATRICIA 

(With  decision}  I  don't  want  to.  Mind  you, 
Woozy,  I'm  not  weakening  on  the  question  of  a 
woman's  right  to  her  liberty,  but  I  admit  that  one 
of  the  things  we  women  do  rather  easily  just  now 
is  to  make  fools  of  ourselves  in  regard  to  some 
man.  We're  in  a  transition  period.  We  are 
absolutely  fitted  for  artistic  careers  and  business 
positions;  but,  as  you  say,  we  are  also  fitted  for 
love.  So  there  you  are.  It  results  in  complica- 
tions. 

Thursday. 

This  morning  I  had  an  emotional  experience 
that  has  left  me  all  unnerved.  I  went  to  the  Los 
Angeles  police  station  to  get  information  about 
one  of  our  Studio  girls  who  ran  away  with  a 


276  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

man,  a  coarse,  flashy  individual  who  promised 
her  everything  in  the  world  and  then  abandoned 
her.  The  old,  heart-breaking  story.  It  seems 
there  are  villains  in  real  life  after  all. 

For  an  hour  I  waited  in  a  dingy,  bare  room 
with  a  dozen  forlorn  specimens  of  womankind, 
bold-eyed  or  dejected.  Two  young  girls  not  over 
sixteen  were  chewing  gum  and  giggling  together 
while  a  blond  of  eighteen  flaunted  her  spoiled  pret- 
tiness  and  powdered  her  nose.  One  by  one  they 
told  their  stories  to  the  City  Mother,  a  fat,  unil- 
lumined  person,  I  thought,  in  spite  of  newspaper 
eulogies.  Where  was  the  light  of  high  purpose 
shining  in  her  eyes  that  they  talk  about?  Rather 
a  bored  and  business-like  person,  she  seemed  to 
me,  in  her  severe  black  dress  with  painfully  neat 
collar  and  cuffs.  Another  disappointment! 

It  was  all  so  depressing  that  I  almost  turned 
and  fled,  but  Woozy  whispered  to  me :  "March 
on,  Pat.  You're  a  common  soldier  now.  No 
swashing  about  in  gallant  array.  You're  out  for 
plain  service  and  hard  work." 

So  I  stayed,  and  finally  the  girl  I  was  seeking, 

Margaret  H ,  came  in,  a  Madonna-like 

beauty.  She  looked  at  me  out  of  her  big  violet 
eyes  and — then  she  broke  down  and  sobbed. 

"Come  on,  dear!"  I  said  encouragingly. 
"We'll  go  for  a  drive  in  the  car."  And  I  did 


THE  BARRIER  OF  PRIDE         277 

my  best  to  comfort  her  as  we  took  a  long  run 
along  the  smooth,  white  beach  above  Santa  Mon- 
ica, close  to  the  in-washing  breakers  with  the  pur- 
ple haze  of  the  Malibu  hills  beyond.  Finally  we 
turned  back  along  an  oak-shadowed  road  and 
came  to  the  Studio  Home.  Poor  Margaret! 
How  she  wept  as  we  swung  in  through  the  grilled 
iron  gateway.  I  was  in  tears  myself. 

Think  of  it!  This  girl  came  from  a  good 
home  in  a  Middle  Western  town.  Her  father 
is  a  well-to-do  doctor.  She  has  had  "advantages" 
and  could  have  made  a  good  marriage,  if  she  had 
been  willing  to  stay  at  home.  But  she  was  am- 
bitious. She  was  sure  her  beauty  and  her  talent 
could  conquer — just  as  I  was.  She  wanted  her 
liberty — just  as  I  did.  Oh,  it's  too  tragical. 

WOOZY 
(Tenderly]      Don't  cry,  Pat. 

PATRICIA 

Why  shouldn't  I  cry?  It  makes  me  see — what 
might  have  happened,  if — 

WOOZY 
No! 

PATRICIA 

(Agitated}  Why  not?  I  absolutely  trusted 
Pierre.  He  was  my  ideal — incapable  of  anything 
base,  but — you  see  we  don't  understand.  We 


278  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

think  we  know  everything.  We  read  about  the 
double-standard  and  all  that,  but  when  the  test 
comes  we — (sobbing)  we  do  need  to  be  watched 
over — a  little. 

Three  weeks  later. 

Another  shock.  This  afternoon  I  saw  Louis 
Tong!  I  almost  ran  over  him  as  I  was  driving 
through  the  Mexican  quarter,  taking  a  bundle 
of  clothing  to  one  of  my  protegees,  who  has  hid- 
den her  distress  in  a  poor  room  in  this  old  part 
of  town.  He  shot  in  front  of  the  Dodge  in  that 
slippery  way  those  yellow  heathen  have.  I  gasped 
and  looked  down  into  the  frightened  gleam  of 
his  slanting  eyes. 

"Missey  Cleighton  1"  he  cried. 

"You!"  I  exclaimed.  "You,  Louis  Tong,  scar- 
ing me  out  of  my  wits!  Here,  climb  in.  I've 
got  an  errand  to  do  near  here,  but  I  can't  let  you 
get  away." 

Only  one  other  person  could  have  been  more 
welcome  to  my  sight  than  this  thin-faced,  little 
yellow  man.  He  could  give  me  news  of  the  other 
one. 

The  car  door  clicked  after  him  as  Louis  Tong 
obeyed  me.  He  sat  primly  beside  me  in  his  neat 
black  Chinese  clothes.  From  beneath  his  black 
felt  hat  hung  a  long  and  eloquent  queue.  His  slim 


THE  BARRIER  OF  PRIDE         279 

feet  were  in  neat  black  satin  slippers  with  amaz- 
ingly clean,  thick  white  soles.  His  slim  hands, 
an  index  to  his  soul,  I  always  told  Stan,  were 
folded  across  his  black  sateen  lap.  On  the  back 
seat  towered  the  bundle  of  clothes. 

The  traffic  cop  signaled  and  we  darted  on  our 
way.  Little  by  little  I  drew  from  him  news  of 
Stan,  and  learned  that  Louis  Tong  had  come  to 
town  on  business  for  his  master.  He  is  Stan's 
right-hand  man  now.  A  Chinaman's  loyalty  once 
won  is  won  forever. 

"Him  veely  sad,"  Louis  Tong  assured  me  as 
he  ended  his  report. 

"Why?"  I  probed.  "Why?  He  seems  con- 
tent  enough  mooning  over  his  book.  He  doesn't 
need  .  .  .  help  .  .  .  like  other  people.  He  is 
strong." 

The  bright  eyes  silently  contradicted  me.  I 
understood,  and  my  heart  lifted. 

"Take  care  of  him,  Louis  Tong,"  I  begged,  as 
I  left  him  at  the  entrance  of  Chinatown.  "And 
tell  him  .  .  .  tell  him,  won't  you,  that  I'm  of 
some  use  in  the  world — now." 

"Him  veely  sad  for  you,  Missy  Cleighton," 
repeated  the  little  man  stubbornly.  "Man  no 
man  without  wiffee." 

Correct,  Louis  Tong!  And  woman  is  no 
woman  without  the  man  she  loves  I 


280  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

Saturday  night. 

A  great  revelation  has  overwhelmed  me.  It 
came  like  a  lightning  flash  and  shows  what  a 
blind,  selfish  little  ingrate  I  have  been.  I  have 
been  crying  for  an  hour  and  even  now,  as  I  write, 
my  heart  seems  to  suffocate  me.  God  teach  me, 
show  me  the  way. 

All  my  pride  is  gone. 

It  happened  this  evening  while  Father  and  I 
drove  into  the  hills,  then  walked  together,  enjoy- 
ing the  wistful  beauty  of  the  twilight.  I  knew 
that  Father  was  sensing  with  me  all  this  loveliness 
and  suddenly  I  felt  close  to  him.  My  hand 
tightened  on  his  arm.  The  long,  perplexing  bar- 
rier between  us  was  breaking  down.  Sorrow  has 
done  what  happiness  could  not. 

There  were  letters  when  we  came  home  and  I 
watched  Father  sort  them  over.  At  one  he 
paused,  his  face  a  puzzle  of  conflicting  emotions, 
and  looked  uncertainly  at  me.  It  was  evidently  a 
letter  he  did  not  wish  me  to  see. 

"Never  mind,  Father,"  I  said  with  a  flash  of 
understanding,  "I'm  ready  for  it.  Please!" 

It  was  from  Pierre.  The  bright  blue  of  the 
French  stamp  and  the  fine,  print-like  handwriting 
struck  cruelly  at  memories  I  had  carefully  put 
away — or  tried  to. 


THE  BARRIER  OF  PRIDE         281 

Father  looked  so  grave  and  kind  and  friendly 
standing  there  beside  me.  My  heart  swelled 
gratefully. 

"Don't  tell  Mother  yet,  it  will  worry  her,"  I 
whispered  as  I  took  the  letter,  then  I  kissed  him 
swiftly  and  hurried  to  my  room. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  I  had  the  courage  to 
break  the  seal.  It  was  like  opening  an  old  wound, 
but  I  finally  read  the  pages,  fighting  my  tears. 
It  was  a  cry  for  forgiveness  and  a  last  farewell. 
Pierre  has  given  up  the  world.  After  weeks  of 
illness,  followed  by  a  period  of  mad  dissipation, 
he  has  found  peace  in  the  sanctuary  and  is  now 
about  to  take  the  vows  of  silence,  poverty,  chas- 
tity, in  one  of  the  severest  Catholic  orders.  The 
black  robe  is  to  replace  his  brilliant  blue  and 
scarlet.  How  vividly  he  comes  before  me!  I 
can  see  him  striding  along  at  my  side  humming 
gayly: 

"Car,  c'est  comm'ci, 
Car,  c'est  comm'ca, 
Regardez  moi,  ma  fille." 

Pierre  a  monk  I 

After  referring  in  deepest  humility  to  his  own 
weakness  and  unworthiness,  his  failure  to  stand 
by  his  faith,  he  passed  on  to  a  eulogy  of  Stan 
that  touched  my  heart;  and  he  revealed  this 


282  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

amazing  thing,  that  Stan  would  have  died  for  me, 
if  Pierre  had  been  worthy.  He  would  have 
slipped  out,  unnoticed,  into  the  Great  Beyond,  if 
Pierre  had  stood  the  test  of  simple  manhood. 
He  would  have  done  this  so  that  the  divorce-bar- 
rier between  us  might  be  removed.  Such  love! 
And  no  one  would  ever  have  known  the  truth,  for 
Stan  made  Pierre  promise  that  he  would  never 
reveal  this.  Now  Pierre  was  breaking  his  prom- 
ise so  that  I  might  be  happy.  If  it  was  a  sin, 
he  begged  forgiveness,  as  for  his  other  sins.  And 
he  asked  God's  blessing  upon  me  and  upon  Stan 
as  he  withdrew  forever  into  the  shadows. 


Pierre.     .  .he  withdrew  forever  into  the  shadows. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  LONGING 

"And  then  the  longing,  the  longing  that  is  like  physical 
pain,  that  hunger  of  the  heart  for  some  one  intolerably 
dear.  .  .  ." 

STAN  CREIGHTON  saddled  his  horse  and  rode 
down  to  the  sea.  It  was  an  hour  before  sunrise 
and  he  could  not  sleep.  All  about  him  chilling 
mists  steamed  up  from  the  ground,  a  melancholy 
incense  to  his  heart-sick  meditations.  To  be  un- 
happy in  the  mountains  is  a  maddening  thing; 
their  lofty  peace  and  majesty  reproach  one  irrita- 
tingly,  like  a  preachy  moralist.  It  is  better  to 
be  unhappy  by  the  sea. 

He  urged  his  horse  onto  the  hard  wet  sand 
-near  the  breaker's  edge.  The  beach  stretched 
away  gray  and  desolate  through  the  inrolling 
fog.  The  ocean  was  gray,  the  shore  was  swal- 
lowed up  in  grayness.  His  horse  walked  dis- 
trustfully on  the  sand,  ears  twitching  back  and 
forth,  nostrils  quivering  with  apprehension,  head 

283 


284  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

raised  high  to  stare  with  great,  startled  eyes  over 
the  glittering  sheet  of  steely  waters,  or  lowered 
to  sniff  anxiously  at  the  kelp  piled  on  the  sand. 

"I  should  have  taken  Pat  away  as  soon  as  this 
place  began  to  irritate  her,"  he  reflected.  "If  I 
had  humored  her  a  little,  I  might  have  won  her." 

Stan  reined  in  his  horse  and  looked  out  over 
the  sea.  How  often  he  had  done  this  before, 
waiting  on  these  lonely  sands  for  the  sun  to  rise 
in  its  splendor  over  the  mountains  and  illumine 
the  Pacific.  If  something  could  only  illumine  his 
soul! 

He  thought  back  through  the  months,  search- 
ing for  some  mistake  on  his  part.  After  his 
fruitless  trip  to  New  York  he  had  gone  to  a 
lawyer  in  Los  Angeles,  according  to  his  promise, 
and  talked  over  the  necessary  steps  leading  to 
a  divorce;  but  the  next  day  a  telegram  from  Pa- 
tricia's father  had  urged  delay,  and  a  long  letter 
following  this  told  of  Patsy's  broken  dream  and 
of  her  illness.  His  tenderness  and  concern  for 
her  unhappiness  had  surged  up  again  and  impelled 
him  to  go  to  her;  but  he  had  resolutely  hardened 
his  will.  Had  he  not  done  everything  in  his 
power  to  win  Patricia  and  failed?  She  knew  his 
love  was  of  the  enduring  kind,  and  that  he  de- 
sired no  other  woman  in  the  world.  Up  to  a 
certain  point  he  could  plead,  entreat,  try  to  dom- 


THE  LONGING  285 

inate;  but  only  up  to  a  certain  point.  He  had 
done  his  best,  and,  if  she  wanted  or  needed  him 
now,  she  must  make  the  advance.  He  had  shown 
her  definitely  that  she  could  always  rely  upon  him. 
No,  he  would  never  seek  her  again. 

Stan  turned  and  rode  back  slowly  into  the  Mon- 
tecito  hills.  Back  to  the  bungalow,  the  bunga- 
low that  had  no  particular  reason  for  existence 
any  longer.  Back  to  his  work,  as  he  had  gone 
back  doggedly,  so  many  times  through  days  and 
weeks  that  dragged  .  .  .  dragged.  In  his  lonely 
evenings  he  had  sought  relief  from  bitter  thoughts 
in  the  creation  of  a  new  book,  The  Valley  of  the 
Shadow,  that  had  grown  slowly,  since  most  of 
his  strength  was  given  to  movie  tasks  through  the 
day.  Another  wild  serial  that  at  least  diverted 
him.  Even  so  the  book  had  grown  and  was  be- 
ginning to  take  shape  under  his  unflinching  de- 
mands upon  himself.  But  what  was  the  use? 
Another  book !  What  pitiful  things  books  were ! 

To  Louis  Tong,  his  devoted  slave  and  sole 
companion,  Stan  expounded  his  views  on  life, 
striding  about  the  big  living-room,  shirt  open  at 
the  throat,  pipe  in  a  fury  of  activity,  while  the 
immaculately-aproned  Oriental  listened  deferen- 
tially. 

"Men  are  conceited  fools,  Louis  Tong,  and 
don't  you  forget  it,"  explodes  Stan.  "Why,  you 


286  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

can't  pick  up  a  paper  without  seeing  where  some 
meddling  parson  is  worrying  about  the  length  of 
girls'  skirts,  and  lordy!  if  she  hasn't  gone  and  imi- 
tated him  in  smoking  cigarettes!  Such  an  im- 
moral creature!  Aping  him!" 

Louis  Tong  blinks.  The  male  of  the  species, 
unquestionably  superior,  is  being  underrated. 
Queer  creatures,  these  American  men!  But  he, 
wise  Oriental,  smooths  his  crackling  white  apron 
and  holds  his  peace. 

"I  say  we  modern  men  are  fools,"  storms  the 
master.  "Why  don't  we  play  up  to  her  love  of 
love  and  really  win  love;  not  only  win  it  but  keep 
it?  We're  too  lazy  and  conceited,  that's  why. 
We  do  what  we  please  and  want  her  to  be  what 
we  please.  And  it  serves  us  jolly  well  right  when 
we  get  stung." 

A  strong  smell  of  burning  potatoes  comes  from 
the  kitchen.  Louis  Tong  leaps  into  the  air,  sniffs 
dramatically,  and  dashes  from  the  room. 

So  the  days  pass. 

In  spite  of  all  the  brave,  light  talk  that  passed 
between  them,  Louis  Tong,  with  his  inscrutable 
wisdom,  knew  quite  well  what  purpose  was  slowly 
forming  in  his  master's  mind  and,  loyal  servant 
that  he  was.  mourned  over  this. 


THE  LONGING  287 

"Say,  I  believe  you  Orientals  have  the  right  idea 
after  all,"  reflected  Stan  one  evening  as  he  sat  on 
the  vine-spread  piazza  watching  the  fading  sun- 
set. "If  things  get  too  hard  here,  why  you  don't 
worry,  do  you?" 

Louis  Tong  smiled  brightly.  "Same  as  chilern 
— all  learn — each  one  get  nes'ary  strength — what 
must  be?" 

"Exactly — the  necessary  strength  for  what  must 
be.  That's  the  dope.  We  don't  have  to  bear  too 
much,  do  we,  son?" 

"All  things — can  bear,"  affirmed  the  little  yel- 
low man,  his  dark  eyes  burning  with  deep  con- 
cern. 

Stan  was  silent  for  a  long  time  drawing  what 
comfort  he  could  from  his  trusty  briar  pipe. 

"Come  here,  Louis  Tong.  I  want  to  tell  you 
something."  The  devoted  servitor  came  close 
and  stood  waiting.  "I  don't  believe  there's  any- 
body in  the  world  cares  as  much  for  me — as  you 
do." 

"One  other,  master." 

~  Stan  shook  his  head.  "No !  You've  stood  by 
me  through  hell — yes,  you  have  and — put  it  there, 
friend!" 

He  held  forth  his  big,  sun-burned  hand  and 
gripped  the  slim  brown  palm  of  the  Chinaman, 


288  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

at  which  moment  East  and  West  did  truly 
meet. 

"Wake  me  at  six.  Hamilton's  coming  at  seven. 
You  know  we  pull  that  big  stunt  to-morrow. 
Great  stuff,  my  boy!" 

"Master  use  double — big  jump?"  questioned 
Tong. 

"Oh,  maybe  not.  Hamilton  wants  to  put  in 
Morgensten,  but  Morgy's  not  very  keen  about  it. 
Says  the  timbers  aren't  shored  up  strong  enough 
where  we  take  off.  That's  rot,  the  timbers  are 
all  right." 

Louis  Tong's  unfathomable  eyes  gripped  the 
speaker. 

"Yes,  master." 

"Another  thing,  I'm  going  to  write  a  couple  of 
letters  before  I  go  to  bed.  You'll  find  'em  on  my 
table.  One  is  for  you.  The  other  is — I  guess 
you  know  who  the  other  is  for.  See  that  it's 
mailed  to  her." 

"Yes,  master." 

"Good-night." 

"Night,  master." 

Stanley  finished  a  meditative  pipe,  then  shut 
himself  in  the  den  for  his  letters.  In  one,  using 
legal  phrases,  he  made  a  formal  gift  of  the  bunga- 
low with  its  furnishings  and  six  acres  of  ground 


THE  LONGING  289 

to  his  faithful  servant  and  friend,  Louis  Tong. 
The  last  letter  was  to  Patricia. 

Having  done  this,  Stan  went  to  bed  and  slept 
soundly. 

Louis  Tong  crept  stealthily  out  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  END  OF  HIS  STRENGTH 

AT  eight  o'clock  the  next  morning  a  bored  com- 
pany of  movie  folk,  costumed  as  bandits  and 
hideously  grease-painted,  were  lounging  about  near 
the  precipitous  edges  of  a  mountain  chasm  that 
has  been  used  for  many  a  thrilling  episode.  From 
this  giddy  height  bowlders  have  crashed  down 
upon  unsuspecting  heroes;  blazing  rivers  of  oil 
have  descended,  frantic  heroines  have  been  res- 
cued from  wild  beasts  and  Indians,  in  short,  all 
manner  of  plots  and  counter-plots  have  been 
worked  out  here,  the  villains  being  invariably  dis- 
comfited in  the  end  while  the  sorely  tried  lovers 
come  together  happily. 

For  the  climax  of  this  particular  "million  dollar 
super-serial"  Hamilton  Dodd  proposed  to  sur- 
pass himself  with  a  triple  sensation — a  life  and 
death  race  between  an  automobile  and  a  train 
(old  stuff!),  then  the  hero's  leap  with  his  car 
across  a  chasm  when  he  finds  the  mountain  bridge 
wrecked  (this  was  to  be  Stan's  hair-raising  stunt, 

290 


THE  END  OF  HIS  STRENGTH     291 

if  he  decided  to  do  the  thing  himself  and  not  use 
a  dummy)  ;  and,  finally,  a  mad  dash  for  an  open 
drawbridge  through  which  the  treasure-train  and 
the  lovely  heroine  will  plunge  to  destruction  un- 
less the  hero  arrives  in  time.  Which,  of  course, 
he  will. 

The  drawbridge  and  the  roaring  river  were 
supposed  to  be  just  beyond  this  mountain  chasm, 
but  were  really  a  hundred  miles  distant  (roaring 
rivers  being  scarce  in  California),  and  that  scene 
had  already  been  taken — the  doomed  train  start- 
ing at  the  open  draw  and  backing  away  so  that 
no  one  was  ever  in  the  slightest  danger,  the  thrill 
being  produced  by  showing  the  picture  in  reverse- 
photography.  Here  at  the  chasm,  however,  there 
was  danger  enough;  this  was  a  real  chasm,  four- 
teen feet  across  with  a  real  descent  of  two  hun- 
dred yards  to  the  rocks  below. 

"If  Stan  tackles  that  jump  in  the  car  I'll  say 
he's  crazy,"  remarked  one  of  the  lolling  bandits. 

"He'll  do  it  all  right,"  insisted  another. 

"Bunk !     Press  Agent  stuff !" 

"Didn't  he  go  into  the  cage  with  that  crazy 
Rajah?" 

"Crazy  nothing!  The  tiger  was  doped.  You 
watch  now  and  you'll  see  a  white-faced  dummy  in 
Stan  Matthews'  clothes  make  the  jump — or  try  to. 
But  they'll  never  get  across.  You  can't  tell  me 


292  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

it's  possible  to  rig  up  any  automatic  control  that 
will  steer  a  car  straight  at  sixty.  No,  sirl 
They'll  smash — sure!" 

The  others  chimed  in  with  various  opinions 
and  bets  were  made  on  the  issue  of  this  adventure. 

Meantime,  around  the  curve  a  mile  or  so  down 
the  trail,  Hamilton  Dodd,  angry  and  perspiring, 
was  trying  to  convince  his  stubborn  star  that  it 
was  both  foolish  and  needless  for  Stan  to  think 
of  risking  his  life  in  this  way.  The  two  had  de- 
scended from  the  car,  after  satisfactory  speed 
tests,  and  were  sitting  in  the  shade  (not  com- 
fortably, however,  for  both  were  on  their  nerves), 
talking  over  the  situation. 

"Morgy's  perfectly  willing  to  do  the  jump, 
Stan,"  reasoned  the  fat  director.  "Don't  be  a 
fool,  just  because — "  he  checked  himself,  and 
studied  his  friend  in  anxious  irritation.  Then  he 
mopped  off  his  face  with  a  large  comedy  hand- 
kerchief. 

"Just  because — what?" 

"Oh,  hell !  I  know  what  the  trouble  is,  I  know 
how  you  feel,  boy,  but — I  tell  you  they're  not 
worth  it.  No  woman  is." 

Stan  answered  impatiently. 

"Drop  that.  How  much  are  you  giving  Morgy 
to  do  this  jump?" 


THE  END  OF  HIS  STRENGTH    293 

"It's  none  of  your  business,  Stan,  but — oh,  I'll 
tell  you — double  pay  and  a  bonus." 

"How  much  bonus?" 

"Five  hundred." 

"That  settles  it.  I  won't  have  Morgy  bribed 
to  take  a  chance  he's  afraid  of.  If  he  weakens,  if 
his  nerve  fails — no,  sir!" 

"Huh!"  grunted  the  big  man  peevishly. 
"What  if  your  nerve  fails?  The  governor  has 
spent  a  fortune  making  a  star  of  you.  He's  got 
a  right  to  have  you  take  care  of  yourself,  hasn't 
he?  Where  does  he  get  off,  if  you  fall?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  fall.  The  governor  said  I 
could  use  my  own  judgment.  He  knows  it  will 
help  the  act  to  have  the  star  really  make  the 
jump  and  not  fake  it." 

"The  governor  don't  know  what's  in  the  back 
of  your  head.  He  don't  know  about  Patricia. 
Come,  Stan!" 

The  director's  voice  was  pleading  now  and 
he  laid  a  red  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder  in 
rough  kindliness. 

.-.  There  fell  a  silence  while  Dodd  waited,  not 
venturing  to  intrude  further  upon  Creighton's 
reticence. 

"I  know  you  mean  well,  but  you  don't  under- 
stand," answered  the  star. 


294  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

"I  understand  right  enough  why  you  want  to 
do  this." 

"No!" 

"You  don't  care  whether  the  old  tub  gets  across 
or  not.  You'd  a  little  rather  she  didn't." 

"Wrong !     I'd  rather  she  did." 

"Then  why  not  put  Morgy  in?  He'll  get  her 
over." 

Another  silence. 

"I'll  tell  you  why,  Hammy.  I'll  give  you  my 
real  reason.  I  guess  I  owe 'you  that." 

"You  sure  do." 

"It's  a  queer  mixed-up  psychology.  It's  true 
I'm  sick  of  the  game,  I  feel  as  if  I  haven't  got  a 
thing  to  live  for.  I'm  not  like  you.  All  women 
aren't  the  same  to  me.  There's  only  one  that  I 
take  any  interest  in  or  ever  will.  See?  And 
she's  turned  me  down.  So  there's  nothing  left 
except  to — " 

He  hesitated  as  he  plucked  pieces  of  moss  from 
a  tree-root  and  flung  them  down. 

"What?" 

"Bury  myself  in  work  or — or  in  that  canon." 

"When  the  car  falls?" 

"Yep!" 

Hamilton   Dodd  pondered  this. 

"That  being  the  case,  Stan  Matthews,"  he 
drawled,  "you  can  see  where  I,  as  the  fat  director 


THE  END  OF  HIS  STRENGTH     295 

of  this  aggregation  of  talent  with  a  million-dollar 
responsibility,  have  got  to  call  the  whole  stunt 
off." 

"No,  Hammy!  You're  going  to  let  me  go 
through  with  it — if  you  care  about  my  staying 
on  this  bum  old  earth.  It's  my  one  chance." 

"Don't  get  you,  Stan." 

"Listen!"  explained  the  other  wearily.  "I'm 
taking  this  as  the  hand  of  Providence — whether 
I  carry  on — or  quit.  I  want  to  carry  on,  but — 
this  is  a  test  whether  I  can — nerve — courage — 
see?  If  I  get  across,  I'll  live — be  glad  to. 
I'll  cut  out  the  dumps  and  never  grouch 
again." 

"Honest?" 

"There's  my  hand,  but  if  you  don't  give  me 
this  chance,  Hammy,  then  I — I'll  find  some  other 
way.  There  are  plenty  of  ways." 

His  broken  sentences  and  checked  emotion  con- 
vinced the  director  in  spite  of  himself. 

"You  put  me  in  a  hell  of  a  position,"  he  scowled. 
"Say,  do  you  think  you  can  do  this  stunt?  Are 
you  going  to  try?" 

"Yes,  I'm  going  to  try.  I'll  take  the  curve  at 
forty — that's  the  only  ticklish  part  of  it — then 
I'll  hit  her  up  to  fifty-five  on  the  stretch  and  lift 
her  to  sixty-five  as  we  take  off.  Sixty-five  will 
do  it?" 


296  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

"Sure !  The  car  won't  stand  any  more.  Can 
you  hold  her  steady  at  sixty-five,  Stan?" 

"Can  I?     Yes." 

"And  you  want  to  do  it?" 

"Want  to  do  it?     I  tell  you  I've  got  to  do  it." 

A  last  long  silence  while  bluff,  tender-hearted 
Hamilton  Dodd  did  the  hardest  thinking  of  his 
life. 

"See  here,  son,"  was  his  last  appeal,  "why 
don't  you  let  me  use  a  dummy?  Then  nobody 
will  get  hurt.  I  understand  how  you  feel  about 
Morgy.  I  hate  to  see  him  take  a  chance  myself 
— with  his  wife  and  baby.  And  that  dummy  will 
go  over  fine.  I've  got  the  engine  and  steering 
wheel  harnessed  up  automatically  so  they  can't 
fail." 

"Rot!  It's  sure  to  fail.  You've  got  to  have 
a  man  at  the  wheel,  running  at  sixty-five.  You 
know  it.  Besides,  I  want  the  test — myself!  This 
isn't  a  stunt  for  the  movies,  Hammy,  it's  the 
salvation  of  a  man." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    LEAP 

"To  give  and  give  and  give, 
This  I  know  is  love  at  last." 

AN  hour  later  Hamilton  Dodd,  quiet  and  seri- 
ous-faced, stepped  down  from  the  Ford  car  that 
had  accompanied  the  big  roadster  in  the  speed 
trials.  The  Company  crowded  about  him  with 
eager  questions.  Where  was  Stan  Matthews? 
Was  he  going  to  make  the  jump  ?  What  had  hap- 
pened? 

"He  says  he's  going  to  do  it,"  answered  Dodd, 
mopping  his  brow.  "Who's  got  those  field- 
glasses?  You,  Billy?  Come  over  here.  Bring 
the  megaphone." 

The  two  men  walked  slowly  toward  a  rise  of 
ground  a  hundred  yards  to  the  left,  from  which 
point  the  approaching  mountain  trail  could  be 
followed  beyond  the  curve. 

"Looks  like  there's  something  doing,"  re- 
marked one  of  the  Company;  whereupon  several, 

297 


298  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

scrambling  up,  started  to  follow  the  director;  but 
he  waved  them  back. 

"You  people  stay  where  you  are,"  he  ordered. 
"Get  ready.  I'll  give  you  the  signal." 

All  was  excitement  now  as  the  bandits  disposed 
themselves  at  carefully  rehearsed  points  near  the 
shattered  bridge  and  prepared  to  play  their  parts 
as  villains  in  thwarting  a  hero. 

"Wonder  if  Stan's  going  to  risk  it,  after  all," 
said  one. 

"Don't  worry.  Dodd's  kidding  us.  They'll 
use  a  dummy  all  right,"  laughed  another. 
"They're  not  going  to  let  a  million-dollar  star 
kill  himself." 

Meantime  Dodd  from  his  rocky  height  was 
scanning  the  trail  which  curved  away  to  the  left  at 
a  point  that  was  really  about  a  mile  distant,  but 
seemed  much  nearer  in  the  clear  air.  At  the  rate 
Stan  would  come,  he  would  cover  this  mile  in 
seventy  seconds  or  so.  Seventy  seconds  before 
he  would  reach  the  broken  bridge. 

"I  don't  like  this,  Billy,"  frowned  the  fat  man. 
"Stan  is  taking  an  awful  chance."  He  glanced 
down  into  the  chasm  which  fell  away  beneath 
them  into  shivery  depths. 

His  companion  was  studying  the  hills  on  the 
right,  observing  a  silver  speck  about  a  mile  and 
a  half  away  that  was  moving  toward  them  rapidly, 


THE  LEAP  299 

coming  down  another  mountain  road  that  joined 
the  main  trail  about  five  hundred  yards  ahead. 

"Look!"  he  pointed.  "Another  carl  And 
hitting  it  up,  too." 

Dodd  turned  his  glasses.  "I'll  say  she  is,  fifty 
or  better.  Hello!  It  isn't  our  car!  I  know 
that  gray  Hudson  with  the  California  top.  What 
the  devil — Billy,  it's  the  Chinaman  driving. 
There's  a  woman  in  the  car !  She's  leaning  out — 
waving!  Good  God,  it's  Stan's  wife!" 

Stan's  wife — yes! 

Patricia  was  coming  to  her  husband,  coming  as 
fast  as  the  car  would  take  her.  All  her  doubts 
had  vanished  when  Louis  Tong,  after  a  mad 
dash  of  seventy  miles  the  night  before,  had 
awakened  the  Lydig  household  at  five  in  the  morn- 
ing to  tell  of  his  master's  desperate  purpose.  Not 
a  moment  did  she  hesitate,  there  was  only  one 
thing  to  do  and  that  she  did,  acting  with  a  strange, 
quiet  fortitude,  but  promptly.  Seventy  miles  they 
had  raced  back  through  darkness  and  dawn,  over 
the  mountain  roads,  and  would  have  arrived 
in  time,  an  hour  before  this,  but  for  engine 
trouble  .  .  .  tire  trouble.  Oh,  the  anguish  of 
it! 

And  now  they  were  late !  In  the  distance  she 
could  see  the  actors  gathered  at  the  bridge.  She 
could  see  Hamilton  Dodd  on  the  hilltop,  his 


300  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

ample  figure  silhouetted  against  the  sky-line.  She 
could  see  him  lift  his  megaphone.  Dear  God,  if 
they  could  only  get  there  before  .  .  . 

"Faster,  Louis  Tong!"  she  ordered,  and  the 
gray  car  leaped  ahead,  rushing  on  toward  the 
point  where  the  two  trails  converged  into  a  single, 
narrow  way,  a  shelf  of  rock,  cut  into  the  face  of 
the  precipice,  that  led  to  the  bridge.  If  they 
could  reach  this  junction  point  before  Stan  got 
there,  they  could  block  his  way.  They  were  only 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant,  they  would  reach  it 
in  fifteen  seconds  .  .  . 

"Faster!"  she  cried. 

At  this  moment  a  dark  blue  Packard,  an  open 
car  with  no  top,  shot  around  the  distant  curve 
on  the  other  trail,  straightened  beautifully  in  the 
stretch  and  came  on  speeding  furiously.  There 
were  shouts  from  the  actors. 

"It's  Stan!" 

Dodd  caught  up  his  megaphone  and  bellowed 
into  it:  "Everybody  ready!  Make  this  big!" 

"He's  doing  fifty-five.  Good!  .  .  .  Good! 
Hold  her  steady  .  .  .  steady,  boy!  What's  that 
fool  woman  trying  to  do?  Screaming  at  him! 
He  can't  hear  her — he's  got  his  cut-out  open." 

The  blue  car  with  its  muffler  off  to  cool  the  en- 
gine roared  along  at  fifty-five,  lifted  its  speed  to 


THE  LEAP  301 

sixty,  then,  suddenly  to  Dodd's  dismay,  as  it 
passed  the  V  of  the  other  trail,  dropped  back  to 
fifty-five,  to  fifty,  to  forty-five  .  .  . 

"Good  God!"  shouted  Hammy.  "It  can't  be 
...  he  couldn't  .  .  .  Oh!  .  .  .  Oh!"  he  groaned 
as  swift  developments  came  so  startlingly  that 
they  almost  stopped  his  breathing. 

The  blue  car  had  dropped  to  forty — or  less. 
Forty  would  never  take  them  over.  What  had 
happened?  Had  Stan  lost  his  nerve?  Dodd 
seized  the  megaphone,  but  Billy  stayed  his  hand. 

"No  use,  old  man." 

Fifteen  seconds  before  the  jump!  There  was 
still  a  chance,  if  Stan  could  rally,  but — as  he  de- 
scribed it  afterwards,  he  seemed  to  be  sitting 
there  in  a  daze.  His  muscles  refused  to  work. 
His  will  was  paralyzed.  He  knew  what  he  ought 
to  do,  what  he  wanted  to  do,  but  he  couldn't  do 
it! 

The  blue  car  had  slowed  down  to  thirty-five, 
and  Hamilton  Dodd  looked  away,  sickened. 
Three  hundreds  yards  to  go !  Well,  this  was  the 
end,  he  reflected;  and  Stan  was  thinking  the  same, 
as  he  sat  stolidly  at  the  wheel.  After  all  what 
did  it  matter?  This  settled  everything.  It  was 
all  for  the  best.  Patricia  would  get  his  letter 
and — 


302  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

An  angry  horn  snarled  just  behind.  What 
was  that?  Some  idiot  trying  to  pass?  On  this 
ten-foot  trail?  With  a  broken  bridge  ahead? 
Fools ! 

Then  came  the  miracle.  Hammy  Dodd  and 
Billy  saw  it,  gasping.  The  gray  car  had  suddenly 
gone  mad  and,  passing  the  V  of  the  two  trails, 
shot  ahead  so  fast  behind  the  other  on  the  single 
narrow  trail  that  the  Packard  seemed  to  stand 
still.  Now  thirty  feet  separated  them !  .  .  .  now 
ten !  .  .  .  now  the  nose  of  the  Hudson  grazed  the 
Packard's  rear  fender,  as  the  pursuing  car  swerved 
far  over  toward  the  edge  of  the  precipice.  Auto- 
matically Stan  hugged  the  rocky  wall  on  his  right 
— he  would  give  these  crazy  people  every  inch 
there  was. 

Two  hundred  yards  to  the  bridge! 

Patricia,  white-faced,  bare-headed,  stepped  out 
on  the  running-board  and,  clinging  to  the  frame 
of  the  top,  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"Now,  Louis  Tong!"  she  called,  and  the  China- 
man responded  with  a  last  gallant  spurt,  opening 
his  throttle  wide  and  swerving  to  the  left  until  his 
off  wheels  skimmed  the  crumbling  edge.  He  was 
going  to  pass,  if  the  gods  willed  it.  The  engine 
quivered  like  a  thoroughbred,  then,  doing  the  im- 
possible, reeling  over  the  gulf,  crept  alongside  of 
the  leader,  so  close  that  the  two  running-boards 


THE  LEAP  303 

touched;  whereupon  Patricia,  listening  only  to  the 
call  of  her  love,  cast  herself  across  from  one  car 
to  the  other  and  fell  prone  inside  the  Packard 
with  a  wild,  inspiring  cry:  "Step  on  her,  Stan!" 

Then  she  fainted. 

Who  can  explain  the  swift  operations  of  the 
human  mind — its  power  of  instantaneous  compre- 
hension and  decision?  In  a  flash  Stanley  under- 
stood. Patsy,  his  Patsy,  had  come  to  save  him. 
If  she  could  not  save  him,  she  would  die  with 
him.  She  would  crash  down  into  these  depths 
with  him — because  she  loved  him.  God!  She 
loved  him! 

A  hundred  and  fifty  yards ! 

What  should  he  do?  In  eight  seconds  they 
would  be  there.  Eight  seconds!  The  speedom- 
eter showed  fifty-five.  He  must  have  hit  up  the 
pace  without  knowing  it.  He  could  lift  her 
across  easily  now — the  engine  was  going  wonder- 
fully. But  Patricia?  Dared  he  risk  it?  There 
was  still  time  to  throw  on  the  emergency.  No  I 
The  car  behind  would  smash  into  them.  He  had 
to  go  on. 

A  hundred  yards! 

"Grind,  you  devils,"  yelled  Hamilton  Dodd,  and 
five  movie-operators  with  hearts  in  their  mouths, 
ground  on.  Was  there  ever  such  an  ending  to 
a  serial?  Marvelous  stuff!  Not  an  inch  of  it 


3o4  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

had  they  missed,  knowing  that  the  story  would 
have  to  be  re-written  to  fit  this  new  climax.  With 
a  new  heroine! 

Fifty  yards! 

The  speedometer  showed  sixty-five  .  .  .  jumped 
to  seventy-five  .  .  . 

A  quick  glance  at  Patricia,  a  deep  breath  that 
carried  a  prayer  .  .  .  then  Stan  gave  her  all  the 
gas  there  was  and  held  the  wheel  steady.  A  sec- 
ond later  they  struck  the  shored-up  timbers  of  the 
take  off  and  .  .  . 

"By  God,  sir,  she  went  over  like  a  bird,"  re- 
ported one  of  the  bandits.  "Never  broke  a 
tire !  Greatest  picture  of  the  century!" 

When  Patricia  opened  her  eyes,  she  was  lying 
on  a  couch  in  the  big  living-room  at  the  bungalow. 
A  Chinese  quilt  covered  her.  The  lamps  were 
lighted.  It  must  be  night.  And  a  storm  had 
come  up,  she  could  hear  it  roaring  through  the 
hills.  How  strange !  She  must  have  slept  a  long 
time.  It  was  the  excitement  .  .  .  the  happiness ! 

She  glanced  about  the  room  where  everything 
was  familiar,  exactly  as  it  had  been.  Logs  were 
blazing  in  the  fire-place,  throwing  shadows  over 
the  polished  boards  of  the  ceiling,  over  the  furni- 
ture, over  a  big  leather  chair  directly  in  its  glow. 


THE  LEAP  305 

Stan's  chair !  And  Stan  was  in  it  ...  She  could 
just  see  the  top  of  his  head,  that  red-brown  shock. 
All  the  love  that  she  had  disciplined  for  months 
flooded  into  her  heart,  caught  at  her  throat. 

"Stan !"  she  called  weakly,  and  he  came  to  her. 

"Oh,  Stan!     Stan,  dear,"  she  murmured. 

In  a  blur  of  ecstasy  she  felt  herself  gathered 
close  in  his  arms,  and  a  peace  that  passed  all 
understanding  took  hold  of  her  heart. 

"My  dear  one — my  husband!"  she  whispered 
brokenly. 

She  could  feel  his  heart  throbbing  out  its  an- 
swer. His  strong,  dependable  arms  held  her 
close  while  she  wept  in  joy.  "Keep  me,"  she 
begged.  "Stan,  keep  me  with  you — always.  I 
love  you.  I  do  love  you." 

Outside  the  storm  broke.  They  could  hear  it 
beating  heavily  at  the  windows — but  it  was  sum- 
mer in  their  hearts. 

And  that  night  before  she  slept  Patricia  wrote 
_her  father: 

''FATHER  DEAR:  You  got  Stan's  telegram,  you  know 
that  all  is  well.  In  my  immense  happiness  I  want  to  tell 
you  that  at  the  bottom  of  my  locked  and  stubborn  heart, 
there  has  abided  always,  love,  admiration  and  gratitude 
for  my  father.  But  I  let  the  days  slip  by  without  telling 


3o6  GLINT  OF  WINGS 

you.  It  is  so  easy  in  the  rush  of  selfish  living  to  neglect 
tenderness  to  those  we  love,  and  youth  is  cruelly  self- 
confident.  How  they  come  back  to  reproach  us — the 
kindly  things  we  might  have  said,  the  thoughtful  acts  we 
have  left  undone! 

"Father  dear,  you  wanted  to  protect  me  from  life,  I 
see  it  now.  You  knew  that  my  shining  river,  dancing  and 
beckoning  in  the  sunshine,  was  beset  with  dangers  that  I 
could  not,  would  not  see!  To  me  it  was  just  one  glorious 
adventure,  of  which  I  was  determined  no  one  should 
cheat  me.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  that  you,  too,  might 
have  sailed  the  same  river  as  a  young  man,  filled  with  high 
hope,  high  courage  and  high  ideals;  that  you  yearned  to 
save  me  from  unhappiness  that  you,  yourself,  must  have 
experienced,  for  I  belonged  to  you,  I  was  of  your  own 
blood,  and  you  knew  it. 

"I  was  not  stupidly  willful.  I  had  an  idea  that  my  life 
was  to  be  a  thing  apart  from  other  women;  something 
brilliant,  dazzling,  quite  alien  to  woman's  ordinary  lot. 
This  blinded  me  so  that  I  could  not  see  the  truth,  I  could 
not  recognize  Stan  even  when  I  stood  close  and  looked 
into  his  eyes.  Wonderful,  patient,  generous  Stan  with- 
out whom  I  should  have  thrown  away  a  reality  for  a 
chimera ! 

"My  eyes  are  open  at  last.  I  know  that  I  am  not  a 
brilliant  solitary  whom  the  world  should  seek  out  and 
applaud,  but  only  a  part  of  a  great  and  wonderful  scheme 
that  none  of  us  can  now  hope  to  understand.  I  know  that 
it  is  not  getting,  but  giving  that  brings  real  happiness. 


THE  LEAP  307 

"The  doors  of  our  bungalow  are  impatient  to  swing 
wide  for  you  and  Mother.     Come!     Come  soon! 

"A  heart  full  of  love  to  you  both,  my  dears,   from 
your  daughter, 

"PATRICIA." 


THE   END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  121  415     4 


